Domesticity has always been a foreign word. Peter has never had or expected any sort of domestic relationship with anyone—not his parents, not some mythical wife, and certainly not Malcolm Leight.
And yet—this lazy, rainy Saturday morning fits the dictionary definition of domesticity. (Peter is certain; he checked.) They are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, surrounded by stacks of newspapers, piles of clothes, empty coffee mugs, empty plates from the breakfast Peter made, and the sound of the rain hitting the roof.
Peter's reading the paper intermittently; every now and then he stops, looks around, and gets caught up in how domestic, companionable, perfect this morning is. Then he hears something crack, splinter, snap, and he looks up.
Leight is holding a broken pencil and wearing a small frown. He has a large book open in front of him and a number of loose papers spread around him.
"Mal," Peter sighs, "you do remember we solved the Case of the Burmese Rice Blight last week, right? Ye was arrested, remember? You don't need to decode all of Dara and Yates's correspondences."
"Yes, I remember," Leight says shortly without looking up, "and yes, I do need to decode them."
"The DA said it wasn't necessary."
"I don't care what the DA said."
"So you're just doing this because you want to," Peter states with a shake of the head. "Have you always been this much of a masochist?"
That catches Leight's attention. He looks up from his work, wags an eyebrow lewdly, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Peter's breath snags as the fantasy takes shape in his mind. They've dabbled in flavors more exotic than vanilla, but always the other way around. The thought of switching has honestly never occurred to him, but—
Leight's sitting there, coy, coquettish, positively come hither. Peter doesn't have the slightest interest in the paper. He drops it, and before he consciously makes a decision, he's moving toward Leight. He pounces.
There's a whirl of papers as Leight falls onto his back, hitting the unforgiving hardwood floor. For once, Peter is the one on top, straddling him. The calculus textbook digs into his shin, but he doesn't care. This is too exhilarating (because it's just a little rough and painful).
He can feel Leight's chest heaving, heart pounding, cock throbbing, and the rush of power at the knowledge that he can do anything he wants to Leight goes straight to his own cock. His mind is racing—so many possibilities—and yet, there's one image that sounds out before the rest. So he does it; he leans down, their chests not quite touching, and plants his lips firmly against Leight's.
And for once, he is the one setting the tone. He is the one in control, the one making the demands, the one taking what is freely offered. And it's just as wonderful (or possibly better) than it usually is as he inhales spearmint, espresso, chocolate—and what may or may not be (but probably is) opium.
But Peter doesn't have the luxury of contemplating the unsavory implications of that unsavory scent because the phone picks that moment to start ringing.
Peter groans, rolls over and off of Leight, silently cursing the damn textbook (which may have drawn blood) as he fishes his cell phone from his back pocket. He answers without checking caller ID. "Peter Grayson."
"Peter, I was hoping you and Leight could do me a favor."
The voice is gravelly, and it takes Peter a few seconds to place it. "Captain?" he guesses. "Is there a case? I thought you were taking the weekend off for—"
"For my daughter's wedding, yes," the Captain supplies. "There's been an incident."
"Is—"
"No," the Captain returns quickly. "Nothing like that at all—at least, not yet. But if you could get Leight to Café Cairo on Walnut Street—"
"Of course," Peter confirms. "We'll be right there."
In the subterranean glow of the subway tunnels, Peter stares at the window. The reflection is perfect. He can see himself, his glasses glimmering, looking rather stoic. He can see Leight, with his trademark black trench coat and gray deerstalker, loosely clutching a pole.
Things have been different, he thinks. They've been domestic and companionable but apparently not perfect. He does not expect much, does not ask much, does not want the impossible, but this—doesn't even compute.
They've barely been apart; Leight has stayed home every night since they reached this understanding. Leight hasn't had the opportunity (or the motive, he hopes) to go to the Pleasure Factory. Because he doesn't care, not really, about the opium. He cares about what the opium represents, and he sincerely hopes that his nose was fooling him.
There is, he sighs warily and wearily, a simple (direct) way to find out.
There is also a difficult (roundabout) way to find out, and that is the option Peter finds himself choosing. He takes a deep breath and forces himself away from his own reflection. They are the only ones in this car of the train; there is nothing to be afraid of except the impending conversation. Facing Leight, he asks, "Mal, do you think people know about us?"
Leight's trench coat flutters as he whirls around in surprise. "Do I think who knows about what?"
"People who know us," Peter feels blood flooding his cheeks, but now that he's started, there is nothing he can do to stop the blush (or the impending train wreck). "The Captain and the Lieutenant, for example."
"That's who," Leight observes. "Now for the what."
"Us," Peter repeats. He doesn't know how he can be any more obvious without actually asking the question he can't ask.
"Yes." Leight takes pity on him. Almost. "They know we live together."
"That isn't what I meant."
"Of course not. You don't actually care if they know at all. You want to hear how I define 'us' without actually asking me to do it."
Peter blinks, in his typical that-is-not-a-typical-comment-from-Malcolm-Leight reaction.
"You know it doesn't work that way, Peter."
"Then how does it work?"
"You have to do some of the work, Peter."
"What do you mean—"
"What do you know," Leight smiles tightly. "This is our stop."
It's four blocks from the subway station to Café Cairo, but it feels like forty. The rain is vicious, the wind is violent, and Peter's drugstore umbrella doesn't stand a chance.
It doesn't help that he and Leight are both huddled under said umbrella, that Leight's arm has somehow found its way around his waist, and that Leight seems to be pretending that that conversation that was not quite an argument never happened.
The four blocks go by quickly, even though they're thoroughly soaked (and the umbrella is irreparably broken) by the time they reach the small Middle Eastern-themed coffee shop with the striped blue and white awning sandwiched between a stationary shop and a deli.
They go inside. Peter scans the room. Most of the tables are empty, but there are a few people with newspapers or laptops.
In a corner, Peter spies the Captain, who is sitting with a couple in their mid 20s. Leight touches his shoulder, makes some comment about ordering, and walks toward the counter. Peter makes his way to the table, suddenly feeling nervous. He looks at the Captain, his daughter, and her fiancé, he realizes that the Captain is as much of a stranger as the others.
The Captain is not someone to whom Peter has ever paid the slightest attention. He has listened, yes, and talked with him, but he has never taken the time to get to know him.
The Captain is a faceless man, a fixture in the life Peter shares with Leight, but never important or memorable or worth noticing. He blends into their scrapbook of crime scenes, no more important than the lobster platter in Lynnette Wilson's apartment or the chalkboard in Dara's office.
The list of facts Peter knows about the man is very short. Captain John Smith has led the homicide division for the past five years. He's divorced and balding and has, apparently, at least one child. He is of above average height and weight but only average intelligence. His favorite pastimes are watching college football and drinking cheap beer. He depends on Malcolm Leight to solve the cases he can't. This is where the list ends.
He grimaces but takes his seat. He nods to the Captain. "Mal's ordering the coffees," he mumbles, not knowing what else to say.
"Peter," the Captain puts on a smile, but it betrays the grimness of his mood, "thank you for coming. This is my daughter, Jennifer, and her fiancé, David Markoff. Jen, Dave, this is Peter Grayson and the famous Malcolm Leight."
"Not infamous?" Leight looks positively disappointed as he takes his seat next to Peter.
Peter sighs and takes the opportunity to study the couple; it's a study in contrast. Jennifer Smith is petite, pale, freckled, and ginger. David Markoff is tall, wide, muscular, and black. Both wear expressions of severe concern.
"What seems to be the problem?" Peter finds himself asking.
The Captain's fake smile falls off. "Take a look at this." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cream-colored envelope, which he passes across the table. It's addressed to Jennifer, at an address on the riverfront, postmarked two days ago.
Leight accepts the envelope, pulls out the cream-colored leaf of paper inside, and holds it so that they can both read it (if Peter leans in close, that is). The most remarkable feature is the blotchy brown stain that covers half the page; the second most remarkable feature is the child-like quality of the letters (all caps) sprawled across the page.
The message itself is somewhere between creepy and remarkably terrifying. It reads, "JENNIFER, YOU CAN'T MARRY THAT NIGGER. IF YOU DON'T CALL OFF THE WEDDING, YOU'LL WISH YOU HAD. THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES. HE WILL DIE." There's a single heart drawn (in what may or may not be blood) at the bottom of the page.
Leight sets the letter down, picks up the envelope, and peers into it. There are a few pinches of a coarse green-black powder. Leight coats a finger, brings it to his nose, sniffs, and frowns. "Gunpowder."
"Gunpowder?" Peter echoes.
"Gunpowder tea, yes," Leight returns. "The heart's red sharpie. The stain is coffee. Speaking of which—"
Leight stops just as the barista reaches their table, bearing two mugs of coffee. His hands are shaking, and Peter wouldn't care except for the fact that his shoulder now bears a few coffee drops.
The kid is pimply and greasy and otherwise unremarkable, and Peter takes pity. He takes his mug with a nod and a smile without mentioning the spill. He raises the mug to his lips (ever so carefully), takes a deep sip, and immediately gags.
As much as he wants to, he doesn't spit it out. He swallows the thick, smoky, bitter substance down, and then he glares at Leight.
"Mal," he asks, unnervingly calm, "what exactly did you order for me?"
"Turkish coffee." The corner of Leight's mouth twitches, but that is the only sign of his amusement. "Don't you like it?" He takes a sip of his own Turkish coffee just to emphasize his point.
Peter doesn't know if they are or are not having a fight. He doesn't know if this is Leight being a vindictive jerk or just Leight being Leight (or if there is even a difference between the two). He does know, however, that the others are staring and waiting.
Jennifer Smith is terrified for her fiancé's life, and the least Peter can do is treat the situation with respect. So he swallows down the bitter brew of emotion (confusion, annoyance, anger, and something love-like) and turns to the bride-to-be. "Do you have any enemies?"
"Enemies?" she echoes, deathly pale, ghost-like.
.
.