Pet Shop Of Horrors Fan Fiction ❯ Unwilling Sleep ❯ These Bonds of Blood ( Chapter 4 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

For warnings, disclaimers, summaries, etc., see the Prologue to this story.

As always, this chapter contains significant spoilers for the end of the manga series.

---

Unwilling Sleep, Part Four: These Bonds of Blood

Leon slept better, but not longer. When he woke again, unable to remember his dreams, light was just dawning outside the window. This surprised him. It felt like three a.m. Pacific time, instead of six, and he hadn't exactly been well-rested lately. So why was he up?

The answer, he suspected, was curled up next to him on the bed, looking up at him with wide, exhausted eyes.

Oh, that's right. He'd found D, and now he had to figure out what to do with him. But…Christ…still not yet. He stretched out in the bed, luxuriating in the faint burn of muscle, trying not to enjoy D's warmth against him. They weren't touching each other anymore, but D was lying really close. "S'matter?" Leon muttered, scrubbing at his eyes. "Can't sleep?"

"No," D whispered. "You?"

"I just woke up. Try to sleep again in a second. Should probably be on the floor."

D's eyebrows drew together and he looked unhappy. "The floor?"

Leon yawned and nodded. "Phil'll look in. Guaranteed. Bad enough I'm not on the couch." Normally Leon wouldn't give a shit, but he owed Phil. And he needed, really needed to stay in his good graces. At least for now. If Phil kicked them out, they had nowhere to go. Granted, he might not kick out Leon, but he sure as hell might evict D, which was pretty much the same thing at this point.

"Your uncle dislikes me," D said flatly.

Leon couldn't really disagree with that. He tried to summon a smile. Even as tired as he was, he knew he didn't want to explain to D exactly why his uncle didn't like him, because that would be opening up a whole new can of worms. "Yeah, well…just lie low and he'll get over it. He's not a bad guy. I bet you can charm him." Like you can everybody. The thought had ceased to disturb Leon, to incite the usual spark of jealousy that insisted D should only be charming him. D's uncanny ability to enchant everyone he met was no longer an annoyance, but a potential tool for them both. At least for now.

"I shall try." Somehow, those three words managed to convey exactly how little interest D had in charming Uncle Phil. But at least he wasn't arguing. Then Leon noticed something: since it was August, the room was warm, and one of D's feet was poking out from underneath the covers. Like everything else about him, it was slender and delicate and pale, but Leon could see red blotches around the ankles. He sat up and leaned over D, squinting down with a frown. D twitched and tried to draw his foot back under the sheet, but Leon deftly caught the fine-boned ankle. He didn't have to ask what had happened: the smooth flesh was marred with blisters. Leon glanced down at the bottom of the foot and saw that it was chafed and red. D had said he'd walked all day yesterday…

His grip tightened on the ankle before he let it go. D's foot slid under the covers as if it had a mind of its own. Leon didn't look D in the eye, although he did wonder where that unthinking courage of a few hours ago had gone, that courage that had let him take D in his arms without a qualm. Apparently it had disappeared with the dawn. Instead, Leon lay down, and tried not to think about D walking until he got holes in his slippers and had to limp, and said gruffly, "Well, try to get some sleep. We'll have a lot to talk about tomor -- today." Then he reluctantly sat up again, dragging the blanket with him, and lay back down on the floor, resting his head on the couch cushion he'd left there.

"Leon…"

Something in D's voice put Leon on the alert. "Yeah?"

"I will be honest with you."

Leon waited, tensely. When no more appeared to be forthcoming, he asked, "Uh -- about what?"

"That is all," D said quietly from the bed. "When you ask me questions -- anything you want to know -- I will be honest with you." Leon heard shifting sounds, as if D was rolling over. Then there was silence, and Leon was left to think about that. Complete honesty, from D? What he wouldn't have given for that four months ago. As it was now, even sleep-deprived, he noticed a couple of things: one, D hadn't actually volunteered any information; just said that he'd answer questions, if asked. Two, Leon had better not ask any questions he wasn't ready to have answered yet.

He huddled under the blanket, the carpet feeling a lot less comfortable now that his body knew what the bed was like. D's words swam around in his mind, making it difficult for him to go back to sleep. He listened as sharply as he could for the sound of D's breathing on the bed, but couldn't make it out, couldn't tell whether it was evening out into sleep or not. Finally, he closed his eyes determinedly, and started thinking about the last three seasons of the L.A. Dodgers, trying to remember every score for every game, until he eventually drifted off again.

When he woke, he was alone in the bedroom. The blinds were up. D's cheongsam wasn't hanging on the chair. Leon staggered to his feet, saw that the clock read nine, and stared blankly at the empty, neatly-made bed.

Then he was stumbling half-blindly for the door, banging into the frame on the way out and thumping down the stairs, nearly falling. "D? D!!"

"Jesus, Leon!" He almost crashed into Joyce at the bottom of the stairs. "He's in the laundry room. Calm down."

"Laundry -- " Leon shook his head, and stormed down the hallway towards said room, only now hearing the sound of running water. Sure enough, D was standing over the sink, dressed in a fluffy bathrobe and slippers borrowed from either Eileen or Joyce, Leon wasn't sure. He was up to his elbows in suds, the sleeves of the bathrobe rolled up his slender arms, and beneath the soapy water Leon could see the patterned silk of his cheongsam. Chris was sitting on a chair, watching D, his face as enraptured as if he was looking at Saturday morning cartoons. D had looked up when Leon stormed in, his expression inscrutable yet amused. It reminded Leon strongly of the old days, back at the petshop, except that D had never had those rings under his eyes back then. Maybe he hadn't gone back to sleep after all.

"Detective," D said politely. "Good morning."

"Hi, Leon!" Chris said, swinging his legs back and forth on the chair. He hadn't grown much in the last three months, that was for sure.

"You were gone when I woke up," Leon accused without acknowledging Chris, choosing instead to glare daggers at D. It was only after the words had left his mouth, and D, Joyce, and Chris were all staring at him like he was crazy, that he realized how stupid that had sounded. Embarrassed, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

"I am right here, Detective," D said patiently, reaching for a bar of white soap and scrubbing at one part of the cheongsam's stained silk hem. "I thought it would be better not to wake you when I left the room. I apologize if I was incorrect."

"Leon, you really need to chill out," Joyce said. "C'mon, I'm brewing some coffee."

He could chew her out for bossing him, or he could have coffee. No choice. "Okay. Okay. Chris, you keeping D company?"

"Uh-huh," Chris said, stating the obvious, squinting at his older brother as if he was out of his mind.

"That's good. That's…good. So, uh, you think you'll be able to fix that thing, D?" Leon gestured at the sopping wet cheongsam.

"I hope so," D replied quietly. "I think I will be able to get the stains out, and then mend the tears. Mrs. Sampson was very kind to allow me the use of the sink. My shoes are a complete loss, I'm afraid." He managed a wan smile for Leon. "I've never been much of a cobbler."

Leon stared at the sad little smile for a moment, something in his heart heaving uncontrollably at the sight of it. Then Joyce tugged impatiently at his sleeve. "Coffee, Leon." Even he could realize the command: We need to talk, Leon. Joyce had always been his favorite cousin, so he obeyed. "I'll bring you back a cup, if you want," he told D. "You had breakfast, Chris?"

"Yeah. Count D made me scrambled eggs." And with that, Chris returned to his adoring contemplation of the Count. D was looking down into the water and did not acknowledge Leon's offer of coffee, or anything else going on around him.

Leon shuffled off down the hallway behind Joyce, heading for the kitchen. He could smell the coffee from here. Phil and Eileen could afford the good coffee, too, not the sludge he had to drink. "Aunt and Uncle off at work?"

"Yeah. They leave around seven-thirty every day." She seemed to hesitate as she entered the kitchen and made for the coffeemaker. "Um…Dad was mad when you weren't on the couch when he came down. He looked in on you in the guest room."

Leon tried not to tense up. "Well, I was sleeping on the floor, like a good little boy, okay? I just wanted to make sure he didn't go anywhere."

"Yeah, that's what Dad said. Leon -- I don't think he wants Count D to be here. I think he's kind of jealous of the way Chris talks about him, for one thing, and for another, you know what he thinks about…" her voice dropped to a whisper, "gay people. I mean," she added hastily, "I don't think he hates them, he just doesn't…like them. And he doesn't want him living around Chris for much longer."

"Shit." Leon slumped against the fridge in sullen fury. Actually, based on what Leon had observed, it might be more accurate to say that D was bi, but he wasn't sure that would soothe Uncle Phil a whole lot. "Well, what the hell's his problem? Has D been rude? Does he wear rainbow bracelets or sing 'It's Raining Men' for no reason? I will bet you anything that guy has been super-polite since he's been here."

"Well…since he talked to you on the phone, yeah, he has been. I think Mom's already warming up to him, especially when he made breakfast. Leon, I'm not saying Dad's right. But it's his house. I'm just saying…" she shook her head and went to pour the coffee. "I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know what I think about the Count myself, if I'm gonna be honest. He tried to lie to us about Chris back in May, and then he's caused you so much trouble and worry for all these months, and then he freaked me out when he just showed up here, acting all crazy. You're really friends with him? You used to talk all the time about how he was this -- this horrible criminal."

Leon sure as hell had burned his own bridges, hadn't he? No harm in burning a few more, then. "I know. I was wrong." About everything. He'd been wrong about everything, and then it had all been too late. Leon wasn't about to make that mistake again. "I got some stuff to do today, Joyce. I gotta call the LAPD, for one thing, and find out what's been going on since I've been gone."

"You're going back to L.A.?" She sounded ambivalent, as if she couldn't decide whether she wanted him to go or not. That hurt. He and Joyce had been close when they were kids. They looked so much alike it had been easy to fool people into thinking they were siblings, not cousins, or even switching identities altogether. And she'd been such a tomboy, such a scrapper, that he'd never felt weird or awkward around her like he did around other girls, even Samantha. D was about a million times more feminine than Joyce would ever be. Although -- that made him think of something.

"I don't know," he said evasively. "I was thinking…we sure as hell don't want to stay in this house, if that's what you're worried about. Not for longer than we have to. But we might stay in New York. I'd like to be near Chris." He decided not to mention that D would, too. "I'll see if I can get transferred, probably."

"And the Count'll be with you, huh?" Now she sounded resigned, almost pained, as she handed him a mug of steaming hot coffee.

"Probably. No, not probably. He will. Yeah, he will. Joyce, look." He set the mug down and took her by the shoulders. She looked as if she was trying not to cry. That hurt him, too. He'd always beaten the shit out of any guy who'd made her cry when they were small, not that it had happened often. "Please. You've always trusted me, right? We've always been pals? Just…try to warm up to D, okay? He doesn't know anybody here, as far as I know, he doesn't have anywhere else to go, and if Uncle Phil kicks us out, we're screwed. You'll really like him, once you get to know him. Everyone does."

"That's what worries me," she said flatly, pulling away. "Guys like that, Leon -- guys 'everyone likes' -- you can't trust them as far as you can throw them. Give me a big-mouthed bastard who speaks his mind any day." She suddenly smiled at him. "Like you." Then she ruffled his hair. "What's your story, anyway?" Her voice lowered to a whisper again. "I thought you were straight. Remember when you snuck me into your dorm room and I saw all those posters? But now you're with him?"

"I -- " Leon's tongue dried to the roof of his mouth. How the hell was he supposed to answer that? He'd pretty much announced to the world that he was going to keep D glued to his hip, but what did that mean, really? What did he want it to mean? "I don't know. I am straight. I thought. Look, I can't worry about that right now. There's too much other stuff going on."

She looked up at him, appearing for a moment every bit as inscrutable as D. "Drink your coffee," she instructed quietly, and Leon obediently sat down at the table next to her and drank. It was good coffee, if a little weaker than he liked it.

"So…" he said, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters, "when do you go back to school? You're at NYU, right?"

"Junior year," she said, nodding. "In about a week. Chris starts school on Monday, though." Leon tried to remember what day of the week it was. Wednesday. Well, at least that would give the kid some time to visit with D before he had to get shut up in school all day. "He says he's looking forward to it," Joyce added. "We're all really hopeful. He's come so far just in a few months." She bit her lip. "I know a lot of that's due to you. And to…him. I just wanted you to know that I do understand that."

Something in Leon's chest collapsed in relief. It might not be much, but it was a start. "Joyce, he means a lot to me," he mumbled, feeling really stupid for saying it, but wanting -- needing -- to let her know. He needed all the allies he could get.

"No shit," she said, staring at him with an eyebrow raised. "Or do you go running around the country for just anybody?"

---

Chris couldn't remember the last time he had been this happy.

It wasn't that he didn't love Mom and Dad and his sisters. Even if they weren't his parents and siblings by blood, that's how he'd always think of them. But those months he'd spent in the petshop, with Count D and his brother, not to mention Pon-chan and Tet-chan and all his other friends, were something special. For the first time in his life he'd felt completely accepted, completely understood -- even if the two people who accepted and understood him seemed to spend way too much time yelling at each other.

That was why Chris was also surprised. He'd never understood why his brother hung around Count D so much. All they ever seemed to do was argue, except during the last week Chris had lived in the petshop, when the Count had suddenly started being extremely polite and nice, just like he was with the customers. And for some reason, that had upset his brother way more than getting yelled at. It hadn't made any sense to Chris at all. But then, it hadn't made sense either that Leon was always talking about arresting D, right before he'd sit down and have a cup of tea and a slice of cake, or drop by for breakfast, or even invite the Count along for their vacation. And the Count would always call Leon an insensitive lout, or any number of big words that Chris was forever looking up and that never meant anything nice, and once he'd even hit him. Hard. That had been a terrible day.

And then Count D had vanished without saying goodbye, which had hurt Chris, but not nearly as much as it had seemed to hurt Leon. After all, his brother had quit his job -- and he loved his job, no matter how much he complained about it -- all to look for the Count, to bring him back. When before he'd never even acted as if he liked the Count that much. Chris had asked him once, when Leon had been in Arizona, why he was doing all this. Leon hadn't been able to tell him. And now Count D was finally here, and Leon was talking like he was going to be staying for a long time. That suited Chris fine, better than fine, but it still didn't make any sense.

"Can I help?" he asked, for the third time. As he had for the first two times, Count D answered kindly, "No, thank you, Chris."

Chris worried his lip. He wanted to ask. Really wanted to. And the Count had never minded when he'd asked questions before. It was worth a shot. "Count?" he asked softly.

D paused in his washing, as if he sensed that Chris wanted to ask something important. "Yes?"

"Why'd you come back? And…where's the shop?" Chris had tried to ask about the shop last night, curious about Tet-chan and Pon-chan, but the Count had evaded all his questions, saying he was tired. He still looked tired, but he must have gotten some sleep. Right?

Count D did not turn around, but instead resumed scrubbing his cheongsam. "I think I almost have this stain out," he murmured. "The shop is gone, Chris, and I fear I shall never see it more…although perhaps you will, someday." He held up a section of silk to the light to better inspect it. "Yes, that is much better…as for why I came back…" His voice trailed off.

Say you missed me, some selfish part of Chris begged. Say you missed me and that's why you came back.

"I realized, when I left," D said quietly, "that the life I was about to pursue was…intolerable. For various reasons. So I decided not to pursue it. I decided to return here, and your family has been kind enough to take me in for a time. Especially your brother."

Chris blinked, and his heart sank a little. The Count hadn't said anything about missing anybody, and what he had said still didn't make any sense. Neither did the stuff about the shop, for that matter. Why wouldn't the Count ever see the shop again? Had his grandfather finally returned to take it over? But why had it disappeared from Los Angeles? "What -- what do you mean, 'for a time'? Aren't you here to stay?" Panic crept into Chris's voice.

"I believe so, yes," D replied calmly, still not turning around. "At least, that is what your brother has given me to understand. We shall see."

"So you'll both be staying here?" Chris asked hopefully. It seemed too good to be true. It would be like living at home and the petshop -- his parents and his sisters, and then his brother and Count D as well. The only thing missing would be the pets. Although Chris was starting to get a little worried about Dad, who didn't seem to like Count D very much, for reasons Chris didn't understand. Joyce didn't seem to trust him either, and Mom and Samantha just seemed scared of him. Were they all crazy? Couldn't they see the Count was wonderful? Even if he was acting a little bit…strange?

"I believe I might stay in New York," D said, and now his voice was careful, guarded. "I do not believe I shall stay here, in your…father's house. Your brother has spoken of finding lodgings for us elsewhere, in the city. He might work for the police department here." Chris didn't think Count D sounded very happy at that prospect. Well, it was a little disappointing that they wouldn't be living in the same house as Chris, but it sounded like they'd be a lot closer than California. That was better than nothing. Although Chris still had no idea why they wanted to live together. "Of course," D added, "nothing is certain yet. Your brother has yet to make any definite plans, I believe."

"What about your plans?" Chris asked. "What are you going to do? Will you open another shop? Without your grandfather?"

"I don't know," D said, and ran the cold water from the tap, rinsing all the suds away from the garment. "There, I believe that is as much as I can do for it…" He picked up the sodden cheongsam and delicately began to squeeze the excess water from it, from hem to collar. Chris, anticipating his needs, moved to set up the drying rack. He was pretty sure that if it had to be hand-washed, the Count wouldn't want to put it in the dryer. Mom had yelled at Dad once for ruining a silk blouse of hers by doing that.

"Why, thank you, Chris," the Count said pleasantly, and delicately draped the silk garment over the rack, making sure no part of it touched the floor or anything dusty. Then he placed the matching white silk trousers next to it. "I will just leave that to dry, and then I can get to mending and pressing it." He bit his lip and clasped his hands together. "I can make it…presentable. It is an antique, you know. And the brooch that goes with it is quite valuable. I could…" his voice trailed off for a moment. "Your brother needs money…"

"No!" Chris gasped, and reached out to grab the Count's terrycloth sleeve. "You can't do that! Count," he added sternly, as if speaking to a disobedient child, "it's the only clothes you have. Leon wouldn't let you."

D blinked, then shook his head and smiled grimly. "'The shirt off my back'…" he murmured. "What folly. Of course you are right. I do wish to keep it. And there must be a more practical way -- there must be something I can do -- " His voice trailed off again, as he reached out to run his fingertips over the damp silk. He'd trimmed his fingernails so they were all the same length now; Chris thought it looked weird, seeing the Count's hands without those long, claw-like nails, but his hands were still graceful and slim. D's eyes widened a little.

"Yes," he said softly. "Yes, I am a fool. An utter fool. Why did I not think of it before? Well, no matter…I have thought of it now…and perhaps it is all for the best…" A small, mysterious smile played over his lips, making him look like he had before, but Chris thought he looked a little relieved, too. "It should work. It had better work."

Chris was even more confused than before, if that was possible. "What should work?"

D straightened his shoulders, and for the first time since he'd arrived yesterday afternoon, Chris saw a spark of determined fire light his eyes. For a moment, he looked almost like he used to, when faced with an unexpected challenge -- like that lady who'd held them both at gunpoint. "New York has a thriving Chinatown district, Chris," he said clearly. "One with which I am extremely familiar, as it happens. And I think I shall have to pay it a visit. Soon."

---

It seemed to take forever for eleven o'clock to roll around. The Chief wouldn't be arriving at the LAPD until around eight, California time, so Leon found himself with a couple of hours to kill. He wanted -- needed -- to talk to D some more. But Chris kept hanging around, and Joyce still had this suspicious squint on her face. At least Samantha had gone off shopping with some friends.

Besides, he wasn't sure what he'd say to D, exactly. He decided to keep himself busy and help out around the house instead. At least he could earn his keep. D already had one up on him by making breakfast. He mowed the lawn, dressed in his cutoffs and one of Phil's old T-shirts. He glanced up at the French windows, and started a little to see D sitting by the windowsill, watching him without moving. He was holding a mug; true to his word, Leon had brought him a cup of coffee, with extra cream and plenty of sugar, although D did not appear to be drinking it, apparently content just to sit and watch the yardwork. For once, his scrutiny didn't bother Leon. He wanted D where he could see him, too. Waking up alone had been enough of a scare. Even though he knew logically that D couldn't leave, he figured it couldn't hurt just to keep him…near. So he cut the grass, every once in a while looking up to see if D was still in the window. He always was.

When the grass was finished, Leon got a start on trimming the hedges by the window. D, still in the robe and slippers, brought him a glass of ice water. Leon took it wordlessly, drained it, and gave it back. This time D sat down on the front steps to watch him work. They didn't speak.

By the time Leon had finished the hedges it was eleven-thirty. "I'm gonna get a shower," he said, the first words he had spoken aloud to D since the laundry room. "Then I'm gonna call the Chief back in L.A." At D's small start, he added, "I won't tell him where you are, if you don't want me to."

"I do not see how it matters," D said, after a moment's reflection. "After all, we are all the way across the nation." He did not smile, but the look on his face as he regarded Leon was one of such faith, such belief, that Leon's breath caught. "What can he do to me here?" When I am with you? He didn't have to say the words aloud; they were there, and Leon heard them. D believed in Leon -- believed Leon could take care of them both. His chest swelled -- and only redoubled his determination to be cautious when talking to his former boss. Tact wasn't exactly his strong point, but he decided he'd use as much of it as he could manage.

"Right," he said gruffly, and that was when Joyce came outside. She huffed her breath in exasperation.

"Come on in, you two," she said. "It's nearly noon, Count. What'll people think, you hanging around outside still undressed?"

"My clothes are not yet dry," D said politely, but Leon could see tension creeping up his frame that hadn't been there when it had just been the two of them.

Joyce appeared to struggle with herself. Then she mumbled, "You're about my size. If you don't mind wearing my stuff, I could find you something that might fit."

Leon's jaw dropped at the thought of seeing D in Western clothes, let alone Joyce's clothes, but D nodded graciously. "You are very kind, Miss Sampson."

"Yeah, well," she said, and shrugged, glaring at Leon. "Go get a shower, Leon. You're sweating like a pig."

"Thanks, Joyce," he said, his tone sarcastic, his words sincere. She rolled her eyes at him behind D's back. "Hey, let him borrow your KISS tour T-shirt," he added over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom. "That'd be perfect."

He'd only said it because he knew it was her favorite shirt, and he couldn't possibly think of a less appropriate garment for D. But as Joyce quirked an eyebrow at him, and D's eyes went wide, he realized that might have sounded a little funny, and ducked into the bathroom without another word, face flushing furiously. Dammit. D was completely at his mercy, for once, and he still acted like a complete ass around the guy.

As he undressed and stepped into the shower stall, he saw one long dark hair clinging to the white cubicle wall. He stared at it for a moment, transfixed, and then turned the water on.

The shower proved to be good at focusing his thoughts. By the time he had finished and was toweling off, Leon had a pretty good idea of how he was going to approach the Chief, what questions he needed most to ask, how many favors he could call in. He dressed in a clean shirt and pair of jeans, padded barefoot into the living room, said, "I'm going to make a collect," and stopped. D was sitting motionlessly in the same armchair by the window, hands clasped in his lap, posture as perfect as it had always been. Joyce was slouched on the sofa reading a magazine, ignoring both of them. After a cursory glance, Leon ignored her too in favor of staring some more at D, who was dressed in a plain white woman's blouse, slim grey pants that were a little too long for him and had been rolled up at the cuffs, and small black sandals that had seen better days, but at least fit his feet and looked comfortable. Leon tried not to notice the blisters again. "You look…different," he blurted.

D, who had evidently been anticipating something worse, relaxed slightly in the seat and even managed a small smile for him. "Miss Sampson is very generous," he said.

"The shoes are Sam's," Joyce said from behind the pages of her magazine. "His feet are too small for any of mine. She won't miss them -- has a new pair every week."

"Right," Leon said, nodding, still a little dazed. It was sort of reassuring to know that D could still look poised and regal even in borrowed hand-me-downs, and then again, it sort of wasn't. "Right."

"Did you say you were going to collect something, Detective?" D inquired.

"His name's Leon," Joyce said from behind the magazine. "He's not even a detective now."

"Joyce," Leon snapped, because he was the only one who was allowed to say stuff like that to D, and he didn't want any fights to start. Was she on their side, or not? Giving D clothes, and then sniping at him. Women.

But D didn't falter for an instant. "Perhaps he will be a detective again soon, Miss Sampson," he said calmly, as if Joyce had merely been pointing out a truth, rather than provoking him.

"Yeah," Leon said, feeling a secret pang of pride when Joyce's hands tightened on the magazine. Just so long as D could hold his own with the family, they stood a chance of making it out of here alive. "And speaking of that, what I was about to say is, I gotta make a collect call to LAPD. The Chief ought to be in by now."

"You do that," Joyce said, finally peeping over the magazine to glare at D. He smiled back, pleasantly. That smile had made Leon want to slap him more than once, and judging by the clenching of Joyce's fingers on the unfortunate magazine, it hadn't lost its effect.

Leon took the cordless phone from the wall and called collect. That was one of the perks of knowing the Chief's direct number and not having to fuck around with all the automated menus. Hopefully the Chief would understand this once -- he just didn't have enough weekday minutes left to cover the call. The phone rang a couple of times, and then a grouchy-sounding voice snapped over the line, "LAPD, Chief's office." Leon was surprised at the rush of warmth he felt at the sound. The Chief was gruff, and could occasionally be a real pain in the ass, but at the end of the day he'd been the best father figure Leon had ever had. It wasn't saying a lot, but it was something.

"You have a collect call," the automated voice over the telephone said pleasantly. "Caller, at this time, please state your name."

"Leon Orcot."

"Will you accept charges?"

There was a moment of silence. For a second, Leon was afraid the Chief was still mad at him about quitting, and would refuse to speak to him. Then the Chief said gruffly, "Yeah, okay."

"Thank you," the automated woman said brightly, and there was a faint click. Alone at last.

"Hey, Chief," Leon said after a moment.

"Listen, Leon," the Chief said at once, "if he's with you, I don't wanna know about it."

Leon nearly stumbled, but recovered nicely with, "Uh -- if who's with me?"

"Good man," the Chief said grimly. "And I didn't see him here last week, either."

"Right," Leon said, feeling that whatever tact he'd been planning on, the Chief was leaps ahead of him. He had no idea what was going on, which seemed to be pretty par for the course, since D was involved. "Of course you didn't. Er…if you didn't see him…how wasn't he? What, uh, didn't he say? Or do?"

"I didn't talk to him," the Chief said, "but other people who didn't talk to him said he looked weird. Listen, Leon, L.A. is a hot place for him right now. Howell's dead."

"Yeah," Leon said, closing his eyes against the memory of it all. "I was there."

"I know you were there, Orcot. But you haven't been here. You've been in the damn hospital, and then haring off only God knows where. For a while the FBI wouldn't stop buzzing around, looking for you-know-who. Howell was last seen alive in his company, do you know that?"

"Oh," Leon said weakly, getting a very bad feeling. "No, I didn't." But it made sense.

"Howell was a loose cannon. Had his own agenda. Everybody knows that, even the Bureau admits it. But he was one of theirs, and now he's dead, and they're still not happy about it. The only saving grace is that at first we were sure the Count was dead too, after that explosion -- and if you're smart, you'll stick with that story if anybody asks. Where are you?"

Leon said nothing for a moment.

"I'm just asking about you, Leon," the Chief said quietly. "I'm not asking if anybody is with you."

That sounded safe enough. "I'm visiting my family," Leon said. "In Long Island."

"That sounds like a good place," the Chief said. Yeah, Leon supposed it was. L.A. definitely wasn't an option now. He could rule out D.C., too. New York was far enough from the FBI H.Q. that he and D could get lost in it, if they chose. But still…

"How interested are they in finding D?" Leon asked bluntly. No matter where they went, D would stick out. Even as…reduced…as he was now, for whatever reason, he still didn't look like anybody else Leon knew. He'd be bound to attract attention. He was just that type of guy. Damn.

"Not as interested as they were," the Chief admitted, to Leon's relief. "Like I said, there was no evidence that he even survived that blast. Give it a few more months, maybe a year, plus a few more testimonials from people here at the station, and they'll let it go. There were some higher-ups at the Bureau who never liked Howell much to begin with. But Jesus. I can't believe he -- uh, didn't show up here a few days ago."

"He's probably pretty confused," Leon said carefully. "Wherever he is. If he's even, um, alive."

"I'm sure. You know, Jill comes back tomorrow. Call her. At her place, not here. They stopped tapping the phones about a month back, but I'm still cautious about it. You know, he is damn lucky the Mayor was his friend, or things could have been a whole lot worse."

Tapping the phones? What the hell had D gotten them into? He'd mentioned that the L.A. cops hadn't been pleased to see him, but Leon doubted he knew the true depths of danger he'd been in. They'd undoubtedly been protecting him more than anything else, and he felt a sudden surge of gratitude for them all. "Listen, Chief, I understand all this, but I need your help. I need my job back."

A shocked silence. Then the Chief said, "But -- I just told you, jackass -- "

"And then I need you to put in a transfer for me. I need a job, Chief, and I'm thinking about staying in New York for -- for a while, at least. I'm staying with my aunt and uncle now, but I want my own place. And I need something to do."

"NYPD, huh? Good luck," the Chief said, sounding resigned. "Remember, that L.A. attitude isn't gonna go over real well there. I was in New York for about five years, when I was a rookie. It's a different world."

"I guess I'll find out," Leon said grimly. "I don't care, Chief. I can adapt. I'll do what I have to."

"Huh."

"Huh what?"

"Nothing. You sound different, Leon. That's all." He could picture the Chief in that moment, his lips quirked in a dry smile. "You might do okay in New York after all. You're hired, anyway. I'll have Marie process the paperwork this afternoon, and then I'll put in the transfer order tonight. You should be hearing from the Long Island chief pretty soon. Are you gonna stay in that area?"

Leon shrugged, and then felt stupid, because the Chief couldn't see that. "Beats me. I need somewhere cheap to live that isn't also full of pushers. Good luck, right, in this town?"

"Well, you can always find a shoebox somewhere," the Chief said, sounding indifferent. "You'll land on your feet, Leon. And if I thought he was with you, I'd say he's the type to manage that too. Besides…" he suddenly sounded sly, "there's always Chinatown."

Click.

Leon stared blankly down at the silent receiver in his hand. Then he took a deep breath. Well…that had taken care of that. He just felt as if he'd said goodbye to a large part of his life forever, even though he'd left the LAPD months ago. He'd always kind of thought he'd go back eventually, though, when he'd finally found D -- or if he'd ever just given up. It was part of what meant 'home' to him.

He went back inside to see D still sitting in the armchair, staring into space, evidently deep in thought. Joyce was gone, but Chris was sitting at D's feet, resting against the Count's knees while he read a book. D was absentmindedly petting his head. When Leon came in, D raised his head, lips parting in the most genuine smile Leon had seen from him that day. Chris grinned up at him as well.

And this was home, too. A person, not a place or a job. God damn, when had that happened? When had they stopped needing the incense-laden petshop around them to be at home together? Or was Leon the only one who felt that way? He had no idea how to pose any question of the sort. He just knew he'd rather be in New York with D than in L.A. without him.

"How was your discussion with the Chief?" D asked. He gracefully rose from the chair, somehow managing to convey the fluttering of silk even though he was wearing American clothes. Chris seemed to take the hint, and left the room with his book after giving the Count one last squeeze of the hand.

"He can get me transferred," Leon said. "We have to get out of here, D." He looked around; nobody appeared to be within earshot. "They were damn right to kick you out of the station in L.A.," he said. "You have no idea how much trouble you're in." D's eyes widened in confusion, and Leon explained everything as quickly, and as quietly, as he could.

When he was finished, D bowed his head. "I understand," he said. "But you do know -- I was responsible for none of my father's actions? You do believe me?" He looked up at Leon, his expression at once closed and pleading. "I am not guilty, Leon. Not of this, at least."

"I know that, D. But we can't prove it. Nobody ever saw your dad, and you were the last person Howell was seen with. Then a building blows up and he's found dead. I was nearly dead. Hard to sweep that under the carpet. It's okay for now. Nobody in L.A. will blab -- they all like you too much, God knows why. And nobody knows you're here. Hell, the official story is that you're dead too! Once we find our own place, we can disappear even better. Start all over. I'll talk to Jill. We'll get you taken care of." When had that become his mantra? Maybe it was because D had never needed taking care of before. Even when he had appeared to be in mortal danger, he'd always had the situation completely under control, and Leon had been more likely to fuck things up than help. But this was different. This wasn't some psycho with a gun who was trying to kill an immortal being -- this was regular living, this was details. "We need to get you a real name. That will help -- if you're not known as 'Count D' anymore. A birth certificate and stuff like that. You…you don't have a real name, do you?"

"No human name," D said quietly. "And no other name I have a right to anymore."

Leon dared to lay a hand on one thin shoulder. D seemed to lean into the contact, very slightly, and he felt warm under Leon's palm. "We'll get you one. And maybe I can score a pay advance or something, and we can get out of here sooner…"

"As to that, I have an idea," D said, looking up, his eyes appearing more alert, more hopeful. "But I shall require transportation."

Leon blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah? Where to?"

"To Chinatown, of course," D said serenely. "Where else?"

Leon closed his eyes as he felt a headache coming on, and wondered if the Chief was some kind of prophet, or what.

---

Well, he was quite the chef, Eileen had to give him that.

It was by far the best Caesar salad she'd ever had. And she'd been trying to get the family to try salad as a meal for months. Phil had always flatly refused, saying rabbit food wasn't enough to make a meal, even when she'd offered to put chicken strips on top. Joyce hadn't liked the idea either. But Leon's…friend…had insisted on making dinner in addition to breakfast, and she and Phil had returned home to find a crisp salad waiting on the table. No chicken, but positively the most divine vinaigrette she'd tasted since her last trip to Paris, and a basket full of slices of perfectly baked and buttered French bread. He'd also baked a chocolate pie for dessert. She supposed there was no harm in letting her many questions go, just for dinnertime. Her husband, of course, felt differently.

"Where's the entree?" Phil asked flatly. She kicked him under the table.

Count D was seated next to Leon, of course, who bristled at Phil's tone (even though he didn't look much happier about the salad than Phil did). "The salad is the entree, Mr. Sampson," the Count said politely. "I saw that you had several fresh vegetables that complemented one another nicely. I apologize if it is not to your liking."

"It's great, D," Leon said, sticking a forkful of lettuce in his mouth and chewing determinedly, staring at Phil. Then he swallowed with a faint grimace.

"You don't eat meat, do you?" Phil asked, ignoring Leon's comment.

"No, Mr. Sampson, I do not."

"Why not? You some kind of animal rights activist?"

"Something like that," D said, and there was the faintest shadow of a smile that -- for no reason she could discover -- sent a chill down Eileen's spine. Phil didn't seem to like it either, judging by the way he dropped his eyes to his plate and glared at the tomatoes.

"I think it tastes nice," Samantha whispered from her seat between Chris and Joyce. Eileen smiled approvingly at her younger daughter, recovering from the brief moment of nerves. Samantha had always been the most like her in temperament, while Joyce had always favored Phil. Samantha knew the value of a fresh salad or a nice new pair of shoes. And, like Eileen, she obviously had no idea what to make of Leon's friend. If they were really friends. Eileen couldn't figure out what they were to each other, and she had never felt close enough to her nephew to ask. You'd think that, if two people had crossed the country looking for each other, they would be fairly…close…but Leon and this "Count D" person (and that was another thing, didn't he even have a name?) behaved far more formally around each other than friends normally did. At least, in front of her. Heaven only knew how they acted when they were alone, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Well, Leon had implied they'd be leaving as soon as possible. In the meantime…Leon was family, and he and Joyce had been so close when they were younger. She couldn't just turn him away, no matter what kind of company he was keeping. Unless, of course, that company proved to be dangerous somehow. That would be a different matter entirely.

If only the man weren't so…so likeable.

Count D smiled at her across the table, and Eileen realized she'd been staring. Leon was glaring at her. She blushed, and dropped her gaze to her salad as well. "My," she said, searching for anything comfortable to say, "the lawn certainly looks nice. Thank you so much for taking care of it, Leon. And my hedges, of course."

"Yeah, well," Leon muttered, swallowing another mouthful of salad with a discontented expression. Now she thought about it, he'd always reminded her of Phil, too, which only made sense…Leon's mother had been Phil's sister. Heaven only knew who Chris took after, because Eileen certainly didn't. "I mean, you're letting us stay and all."

"Well…I certainly appreciate your help," she replied, not sure how to respond to that. The way he'd put it -- as if she was charging him some kind of rent instead of thanking him!

"There is a saying," Count D broke in quickly, almost as if sensing her upset, "by the Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore…" Leon turned and stared at the Count as if he was crazy. D ignored him, and continued, "It goes, 'I slept, and dreamed that life was joy. I woke, and saw that life was duty. I acted, and behold, duty was joy.'" D smiled at Eileen again, and in spite of herself, she felt her insides go warm. "I believe what Mr. Orcot is trying to say is that we are very grateful for your hospitality, and that any minor recompense we can make is a pleasure, not a chore."

Stunned silence greeted this. Joyce openly gaped, and Phil raised one eyebrow in that absolutely infuriating way he had.

"Yeah," Leon said after a moment. "Yeah, that's what I meant."

"How do you say that guy's name again?" Chris asked.

Count D smiled and patted his arm. "'Rabindranath.' He is a very famous poet. I will tell you all about him later, if you like."

"Never saw much use in poetry, myself," Joyce said. "I always hated English class." She finished her Coke and rose to her feet to take her dishes to the sink. She had eaten only half of her salad.

"Perhaps you have not studied the right poet yet," Count D suggested mildly. "Please, leave the dishes. I will take care of them."

"I'll help!" Chris volunteered immediately. Well, Eileen would say this much for the Count's influence, Chris had been much more helpful since his return from California. And now that the mysterious Count D was actually here, his eagerness had doubled. The two of them rose in tandem and began clearing the table in silence. Leon let Count D take his plate away, and then leaned back in his seat and regarded Eileen and Phil steadily by turns.

"I talked to the LAPD Chief today," he said.

"Oh yes?" Phil replied.

"Yeah. He's put in a transfer request for me. I should have a job in a few days."

"That sounds good," Phil said, but Eileen wasn't so sanguine.

"New York is dangerous, Leon," she said, feeling the beginnings of fretfulness under her skin. "I know you've been a detective for a few years now, of course, but do you think you might ever decide on another line of work? Long Island isn't as bad as some areas, of course…"

"I don't know where I'll be yet. And if memory serves, some of the biggest Mafia families operate out of Long Island."

"You've watched The Godfather too much," Phil said grimly. "Your aunt's right and you know it."

"Just as long as you aren't assigned to…to the South Bronx, or Harlem, or some place like that," Eileen said, shuddering at the thought. "You just don't know, Leon. The rate of police officers killed in this city is atrocious, and it's rising -- "

There was a sudden, shattering sound behind them. They all quickly turned around to see an ashen-faced Count D bending to pick up the pieces of a plate he'd dropped, hands shaking among the broken stoneware and the lettuce. "Stay back, Chris," he murmured. "I do apologize. I'm sorry. Such clumsiness -- I can't think what happened -- "

Joyce was already going for the broom, and Eileen was on her feet, waving Chris back to his chair. "It's all right," she said awkwardly. "It's not the good china. It's a common pattern…I can find a replacement anywhere if I need it."

"I am very sorry," the Count said again, softly.

"D, go siddown," Leon said from the table, frowning. "You look…tired or something."

Count D did not look up from the shards he was hovering over. Eileen dared to place her hands on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped under her touch. It was the first time she had seen him startled since his arrival, in spite of his strained circumstances. A sudden feeling of gentleness surprised her. "I think that's a good idea," she said quietly.

"Perhaps," the Count said, face still pale, but composed. "I believe my clothes must be dry by now. I think I will spend the evening mending the tears. It should not take very long."

"Fine," Eileen said, speaking as if to a nervous animal. "You just go get your…uh, your nice robe out of the laundry, and Samantha will bring my sewing kit to your room. Won't you, Samantha?"

"Sure," Samantha said, and left the room after one curious look at Count D. D left the room as well, without one look behind him, posture graceful and straight as ever. Well -- whatever was going on with him and Leon -- Eileen had to give him this, he was quite the prettiest man she'd ever seen. No wonder she was blushing! If only she could convince Joyce to show half as much deportment...

Leon was watching him leave, the frown still on his face. Eileen frowned at him too. "You have a piece of lettuce on your chin, Leon."

"Sorry," Leon said absentmindedly, wiping his chin with his napkin. Phil muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "a Chinese laundry," but it was low enough that Eileen felt they could all afford to ignore it. Leon apparently agreed, though his shoulders stiffened.

"I'm gonna go help the Count sew," Chris announced, scraping the last of the chocolate pie from his plate.

"Aren't you going to watch the game with me and Joyce?" Phil asked, his eyes narrowing.

Chris made a face. "No. I don't like watching them, you know that. Besides, he looked sad. I'll help. Bye!" He scampered out of the room before Phil could say anything else, and Eileen winced at the thunderous scowl gathering on her husband's brow. If only Chris were a little older -- if only he understood a little more about jealousy, about tact --

"I'm up for some TV," Leon suddenly announced, getting up from his chair. "Who's playing?"

"The Yankees and the Cubs, in Chicago," Joyce said, finishing with her sweeping and depositing the fragments of the plate in the garbage. "It'll be a massacre," she added with some relish.

"Yankees'll kick ass," Leon said, obviously as a peace offering. Phil glared at him for a moment, still sulking, before he muttered, "Want a beer, Leon?"

"Beer?" Leon looked as if he'd been offered the Holy Grail. "Would I."

"How you can drink that, honestly," Eileen said, but she was relieved as the three of them trouped out of the kitchen, leaving her alone with her thoughts, which were all in whirl.

Good heavens. He could even sew.

---

Comments and criticism welcome.