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In Uniform

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The first time Leïto walks out of Damien's guest room to the sight of Damien in the bathroom, fixing his police dress uniform, Leïto does an about-face, closes the door, leans back against it, and jerks off.

When he re-emerges ten minutes later, Damien is checking his pockets for his wallet, phone, and keys.

"Big date?" Leïto asks, staying in the doorway.

Damien snorts, lips turning up in self-denigrating amusement. "The punishment for work well done is evening formal parties with coworkers."

"You should succeed less spectacularly next time." Leïto crosses his arms, slouches against the doorjamb. Damien's shoulders are solid and strong with muscle; the dark formality of the uniform makes Leïto want to twist his arms to disarrange the line of the suit, smash the polite fiction of authority that the uniform is meant to represent.

Not that he didn't just come to the thought of kneeling before that uniform and swallowing Damien's cock. But he should be allowed a little license for ambivalence towards symbols of the power of the state.

Damien's smile twitches up a notch. "I'll remember to let my catch slip by," he says, and when Leïto nods, he strides out the door, letting it lock behind him.


The second time Leïto walks out of Damien's guest room to see Damien in his dress uniform, Leïto says, "Another summons?"

"My usual punishment," Damien says, doing up the last button of the jacket. His knuckles are wrapped, from taking a bad fall during a sparring session with Leïto earlier in the day.

"Try not to think about how to infiltrate and rig up a bombing at the location," Leïto says.

Damien shrugs, turns his head to crack his neck. "Same location as last year's. Already have."

Damien returns, fully sober, long before midnight; the moment he steps inside the apartment he starts unbuttoning the jacket. Leïto, doing push-ups in the living room, loses track of his count, then does five more since that probably rounds out the set, maybe.

"My superior," Damien begins, dropping his jacket onto the couch and pulling out the knot on his tie, "asked me about you."

Leïto stays seated on the floor, watching Damien pace. "And?"

"I told him you were staying with me while your sister attends rehab."


The sight of Damien pacing, opening his dress shirt, would be much more attractive either fully in uniform or in something a great deal more comfortable. "Why am I comfortable sharing my apartment with a cop-killer?"

(The feel of the neck snapping, the flat metal cutting through flesh as his body dropped, dropped, blood on his legs and his chest.)

"Because you know why I did it," Leïto says.

Damien's face twists briefly with disgust. Leïto doesn't know if it's because of the dead cop's actions, or Leïto's.


The third time, Leïto says, "One of these days I'm going to pick a fight with you in that suit."

Damien, bolting reheated Vietnamese take-out in the kitchen, grins around a mouthful of noodles. "It'd give me an excuse to get out of it." He glances to the clock, swallows, puts down the bowl. The chopsticks clatter against the plate.

I'll give you an excuse, Leïto thinks. Instead he says, "For an uptight super-cop, you're surprisingly terrified of your own job."

Damien's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I've learned not to trust any of my superiors."

Leïto doesn't trust Damien's superiors, either, but they both know that, so Leïto keeps his mouth shut and wanders into the bathroom to shave.

While Damien is out, Leïto goes running. After a while, he stops on the roof of a building, lies back and watches the sky. Thinks about the midnight-darkness of Damien's suit, and the sky-bright of his eyes.

There is no poetry to the body; it speaks without words. Leïto enjoyed reading, when the local public library was still open, but nothing he read could explain in words the feeling of his fist connecting with flesh, the muscle-depth of being off-balance, the sensation of dropping two stories and rolling out. He still has no vocabulary for Damien's movement besides smooth, or hateless, even though there are a thousand words, most of them obscene, for what watching it does to him.

When he gets back, Damien has already returned; he's wearing sweatpants and is lying on his couch, reading something. Looks like a computer manual. Leïto keeps his mouth shut about Damien's rigid desire to over-prepare for everything and gets himself a glass of water from the kitchen tap. While he's there, he grabs a spoon and opens up the container of leftover couscous and stew that he cooked a couple of days ago, and takes it with him into the living room.

Damien looks up when Leïto sits on the couch in front of his shins.

"And what if I wanna eat that later?" Damien asks.

"You can eat me," Leïto says reflexively, and only hears the pun after the words are out of his mouth. He lets it sit, though.

Damien grins. "I'll remember that." But he goes back to his book, rather than doing anything sensible like flipping Leïto off the couch and trying to pin him to the floor to get a good kiss in.

Leïto finishes off the couscous and washes the container.


The fourth time, having lost patience with both of them, he takes a step out of the doorway, and ostentatiously gives Damien, tying his tie in the bathroom, a once-over. He makes sure to let his gaze linger.

Damien meets his eyes in the mirror.

"I'm either going to punch you or blow you," Leïto says casually, making his way over to the bathroom door.

Damien's hands fall from his tie to hold in front of him, relaxed and ready. "Is that so."

"Unless your appointment is really, truly, very important."

Damien cracks his neck. "I'm sure it'll wait long enough for me to reciprocate both efforts."

"A true gentleman," Leïto says, and doesn't wait for Damien's punch to land.