"Then do excuse me, gentlemen," Larry replies as he gets up and heads to wherever it is that he stores his super secret files.
"Interesting," Leight muses to himself.
"What?" There are a plethora of adjectives Peter could use to describe how he feels about Larry and his precious confidentiality, but "interesting" is not one of them.
"This is going to be easier than I anticipated."
"What?" Peter repeats. His patience is waning.
"The number of professionally-trained female snipers is quite small. Once we have the alias and a description, it won't be difficult to identify her. Finding her will be another matter, of course, but that's rather—"
"Fox!" Larry exclaims as he swoops back toward the table. He takes his seat, smiling, letting his yellow teeth show. "It was a Miss Fox!"
Something dangerous flashes through Leight's stormy eyes. "She didn't even try to be coy about it."
"Coy about what?" Peter asks.
"Never mind about that now." He runs a hand through his hair. He's acting casual, and that's not a good sign. "Now, Larry, I need to ask you about another of Coco's clients."
Larry's jubilance fades into wariness. "Why?"
"I believe this one was a murder victim."
"Really, Mr. Malcolm, why do you think so many murders involve my humble establishment? This is a respectable business I have here, but—is that why you stopped coming in? Saffron's been asking about you."
"This isn't personal, Larry. As to why I stopped coming in, well," he turns to look at Peter, the slightest smile blooming, "I'm giving monogamy a try. I'm finding that I like it. Rather a lot."
When he turns back to Larry, he visibly shakes himself back to seriousness. "I need to know if State Senator Maria Vasquez was one of Coco's clients."
Larry still doesn't want to tell them, that much is clear. He's tense, and really, that should be answer enough. "Are you sure this isn't going to end up in the tabloids?"
"I assure you, Larry, this is a serious murder investigation. Double murder, actually. Now, one last time. Was Maria Vasquez one of Coco's clients? Yes or no." Then Leight gives him the death stare.
Larry crumples. "Yes."
"You didn't ask him," Leight observes as soon as they step out of the Pleasure Factory into the harsh summer sunlight. There's a cab heading their way from further down South Street.
Peter blinks. "What?"
"You didn't ask Larry how long it's been since I was there."
"I didn't need to," he answers without thinking. "You told me. I believe you." After Peter says it, he realizes that the weird thing is how true those words really are.
The cab pulls up in front of them. They get in, and before Peter can say anything, Leight gives the driver their home address.
"Mal," Peter protests, "we can't go home now. We need to talk to Maria Vasquez's staff. We're supposed to meet up with the Captain in two hours. We don't have time to waste."
"You needn't worry. I'm calling the Captain now." Leight pulls out his phone, taps the appropriate buttons, and then holds the phone up to his ear.
He doesn't wait for the Captain to say anything. "Cecilia Fox," he says.
Peter can't hear the Captain, but it isn't difficult to guess what he's saying. He's probably asking the same questions Peter is asking himself.
Who?
"The assassin. Look her up. She's known by her surname."
How do you know she did it?
"There's no time now to worry about how I know. She's going to try to leave the country. Make sure the airports are on guard. She'll be trying for some country without extradition laws."
Shouldn't we, oh I don't know, move the meet up time? Regroup?
"No, we're still busy. The original plan. Two hours and fifteen minutes, yes. At the station. Brilliant." He hangs up just as the cab stops in front of their building.
"Really, Mal, can you please explain why we're here? We should be at Vasquez's office. That's what the Captain asked us to do."
"Don't worry," Leight says for at least the hundredth time this day. He's practically running up the stairs, and his urgency is just a little suspicious.
"We'll be going there soon enough." Finally, they're on their floor.
"We will?" Now Peter is genuinely lost.
"Door."
Peter sighs. "Don't you ever have your key?"
"No. Open. Now."
Peter unlocks and opens the door with yet another sigh. He's about to protest (yet again) that they really don't have time for whatever it is that Leight wants to do, but he doesn't get a chance because as soon as they're inside,
Leight pushes him against the closed door and captures his lips in a searing kiss.
Even though they don't really have time for this, even though the door handle is digging uncomfortably into his back, and even though he's surprised beyond belief, Peter doesn't really have any desire to stop this.
So he responds, reciprocates, lets Leight's tongue into his mouth. He just enjoys the spontaneity and lets Leight have his way. They grind their hips together, and Peter decides it's time they move this to the bed.
So he gives Leight a gentle push, and they stumble toward the bedroom without ever breaking apart. They only knock over one lamp and one newspaper stack on the way.
They topple sideways onto the bed. Peter never wants to let go, to lose this, because god, it almost hurts how much he loves Leight, wants this.
But Leight pulls back a little, putting a cushion of air between them.
In spite of himself, Peter lets out a moan in complaint.
"Clothes," Leight whispers, "off."
Then he readjusts, reaches between them, undoes the button and zipper of Peter's jeans, tugs. He repeats the process with his own jeans, and then his boxers. He doesn't bother fighting his shoes; he just leaves everything tangled around his ankles. He pulls his shirt up and over his head.
Peter's head is fuzzy; he's thinking through a cloud, a haze, the heaviest London fog. It takes his full concentration just to peel off his shirt and boxers.
His Mardi Gras beads go flying and hit the floor with a series of distinct pings. He's painfully hard, hopelessly in love, thoroughly desperate. He's making noises, pitifully sounding, he's sure, he's moaning, keening, groaning, in danger of careening over the edge.
"Mal," he gasps, "please."
Leight leans forward to reach for something on the night table. "I know," he whispers, placing a gentle kiss to Peter's forehead.
"Soon." Then he kneels back onto his haunches. "On your back," he murmurs.
"Spread your legs." He waits for Peter to comply. "Wider." He waits another beat.
"Beautiful. Brilliant. Perfect." He scoots into the space, uncaps the tube of lube, squeezes some onto his fingers.
Peter whimpers when the first finger enters him. "Cold," he whispers.
It's not a complaint, not really, because he can't object to any part of Leight being inside him. He pushes forward, needy, greedy. After the second finger, the scissoring motion starts, and the cold is the last thing on his mind.
"More." A third finger. "Ready." A touch to his prostate.
"Please." Then the emptiness. "Mal." Leight's blunt heat at his entrance.
Leight pushes in.
Peter's eyes roll back. He bucks forward. The slight burn is beautiful, brilliant, perfect—all the more so because it's the middle of the day, a Sunday, the middle of a case, the murder of a Senator.
There's something delicious about the taboo of it all, about the contradiction in Leight's behavior—the gentleness to the urgency, the clemency to the fierceness.
They move together at a steady rhythm, skin slapping on skin, breathing in stolen pants, toes curling. Leight angles, aims for Peter's prostate with each thrust. His hand goes to Peter's cock, which is impossibly hard, oozing pre-come, and very close.
He strokes.
Then he leans forward and places a soft kiss against Peter's lips—soft enough that it could almost be considered chaste, if it wasn't for the obscenity of the context.
It's that kiss that sends Peter careening over the edge. He's incoherent in orgasm, screaming, shooting, clenching, crying—the pleasure's white, so bright, so pure—it's all he can do to remember to breathe.
He's boneless, barely aware of Leight coming inside him, pulling out, collapsing next to him, draping an arm possessively over his chest.
As glorious as the afterglow is, Peter knows he can't stay in this blissful post-coital haze. There are two murders to be solved, an assassin to catch, the Captain to placate.
As much as he would love to stay (mostly) naked on the scratchy wool blanket with Leight for hours, he can't deny the world out of existence. So he resolves himself to getting up, but before he does, there's one question he has to ask.
"Mal?" he murmurs, trying to force the sleep out of his voice.
"Peter," Leight acknowledges, sounding a little sleepy himself.
"What was that for?"
"What? I'm not allowed to be spontaneous without motive?"
"Not on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of a case, no."
"All right," Leight sighs. "It was because of what you said outside the Pleasure Factory."
Peter frowns. "I didn't say anything particularly erotic."
"You said you trust me."
.
.