Exit Wounds

sequel to conquered (by a wily voice and eyes)

Kris’ apartment door has a lock that sticks, every time without fail. Kris likes that, normally, because it means that anyone coming in will have to make enough noise to wake him up, no matter how professional they think they are or how deeply Kris might be sleeping. Right now, though, he’s the one who’s stuck, and he’d like to trade in his thief-resistant door for a sliding automatic one that would swish open at his approach.

What kind of an idiot would break into a cop’s apartment, anyway?

He tries once again to turn the key, wincing in anticipation of the pain the motion is sure to set off in his chest, and this time, the lock turns with a loud clank, letting the door fall open abruptly—and leaving Kris just enough time to think, ‘Shit, this is gonna hurt,’ before he’s toppling through unceremoniously.

But it doesn’t hurt. He is caught before he can land on the floor in an undignified heap, strong arms grabbing him around the middle, a firm chest cushioning his head. Kris can’t stop the gasp that escapes through his lips, and his eyes snap up to the face of his savior.

A pair of concerned blue eyes meet his.

Adam Lambert.

Kris thinks that maybe ending up on the floor would have been preferable in this instance.

~

What pisses Kris off more than getting hurt is the fact that he got hurt in a car crash. He didn’t catch a killer, he didn’t arrest a rapist, he didn’t even save kittens. He didn’t accomplish anything. He was in pursuit of a suspect, and it turned out the guy was a better driver than him. And now Kris has a bruised ego and matching ribs—plus a week’s leave that he doesn’t need or want. The Chief told him to get lost and not even dream about coming in to work; he’s probably already started handing over Kris’ open cases to other detectives.

Awesome. Just awesome.

And if all that weren’t enough already, Kris is now going to have to put up with Adam Lambert, who apparently has nothing better to do than break into Kris’ apartment while Kris is away.

“How did you get in?” is the first question that pops into Kris’ head. The door was still locked, after all. What kind of a thief would lock himself into a cop’s place? It doesn’t make any sense.

Not that Adam Lambert has ever made sense to Kris.

Lambert doesn’t answer with words—he doesn’t look like he’s in a talkative mood—his expression is tight and tense as if Kris has offended him by coming home or something. He just nods towards the open living room window.

“It’s the 8^th floor,” Kris says.

Lambert stares at him, puzzled. “And?”

And… Kris really hates heights, so even the thought of that climb is enough to make him sick to his stomach.

Or maybe that’s his injuries. It feels like maybe his insides have gotten a little scrambled.

“You should be at the hospital,” Lambert says, a frown pulling down the corners of his lips.

Kris rolls his eyes. He’s used to hearing those words, though they usually come from his mother or Matt. “Well, you should be in Moscow.”

One side of Lambert’s mouth turns up rebelliously. “You check up on me.”

“I keep track of you,” Kris corrects him. “That’s what cops do. They keep track of known felons.”

“Aww,” Adam says, full-on smiling now. “You care.”

Kris is not about to tell him this, but the smile makes him feel a little bit better. It’s unsettling to see Lambert so serious. Mocking and mischievous is more like him. “So. You leaving now? Cause I’m going to sleep.”

Kris waits for a half-joking offer from Lambert to join him, but it doesn’t come. Instead the man comes closer—slinks would probably be a better word—and pokes Kris’ arm.

The sharp, biting pain makes Kris flinch back. “Shit!”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Lambert says. “Gotta take care of that one before you go to sleep. Gangrene is no fun.” He puts an arm around Kris and steers him towards the bedroom. Kris is about to protest—he can totally walk on his own—and tell Lambert to get lost—he can take care of a simple cut himself—but Lambert smells unexpectedly good and…God, it’s been a bad day. Kris weakens and relaxes into the warmth of Lambert’s side for just one second, and before he knows it, he’s being ushered towards his unmade bed and Lambert is disappearing through the bathroom door.

Kris sighs. He can try and try, but it’s probably about time to admit that it’s all futile. Kris has never really had any control over these little get-togethers of theirs; they always go the way Lambert wants them to. Kris should have stopped trying to resist a long time ago.

(Not that he’s going to. He’s stubborn as a mule. Just ask his mom.)

~

“Why aren’t you at the hospital?”

Lambert sounds pained, and okay, the wound on his arm is apparently not just a simple cut like Kris had thought, but still, the tone is quite unnecessary. Isn’t Kris the one who’s supposed to be in pain here?

“Don’t like hospitals.”

Lambert continues cleaning the million tiny cuts on Kris’ arm with what seems to be infinite patience. He could have been a nurse in another life, Kris thinks, and then snickers, picturing him in a nurse’s outfit.

“What?”

Kris bites his lip to stop snickering. “Nothing.” Then, feeling uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the narrowed blue eyes, he says, “You’re good at this.”

Adam scoffs softly—like that should go without saying.

“Still, I could’ve taken care of it myself.”

“Yeah,” Adam bites out, brushing out a tiny glass fragment from one of the cuts with the wet cotton ball in his hand. “I know just how well you take care of yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kris is offended. He’s a grown man. He’s a goddamn cop. Of course he can take care of himself. “What the hell do you know about—”

“When was the last time you slept for longer than four hours?”

Kris is too shocked at the line of questioning to respond.

“When did you last eat some kind of vegetable? Or have something other than coffee for breakfast? Or—”

“Wait a goddamn second—”

“Right. Sure. You definitely know how to take care of yourself.”

Kris bristles. “What are you, my mother?”

“I bet Emily would agree with me.”

“She doesn’t—” Kris cuts himself off in the middle of the sentence. “How do you know about Emily?”

Lambert focuses very hard on applying the antibiotic cream to Kris’ arm, using his fingertips to spread it evenly over all the cuts, his touch feather-light. He ignores the question.

“You’ve been spying on me.” Kris doesn’t even know why he’s surprised. He’d known something was up, with the way Lambert kept turning up every time Kris needed to be picked up off a floor, or had a particularly rough case. What he doesn’t get is why. Shouldn’t an internationally wanted thief have better things to do with his time than keep up with a lowly detective’s life?

“I… keep an eye on you.”

Kris raises an eyebrow. “Because that’s what felons do to cops?” He snorts. Not in his world they don’t.

“Just because,” Lambert says, curt. He gets up, carrying the first aid kit into the bathroom with him.

Kris frowns at his back.

~

“Get out of that shirt,” Lambert says, pulling out an old t-shirt from Kris’ closet and dropping it on the bed next to him.

It doesn’t even occur to Kris to say no. The shirt he wore to work today is now beyond saving, ripped and streaked with blood all over one arm. He already stinks of disinfectant; there’s no need to add to the torture by going to sleep with the smell of blood still on his clothes.

It should feel more awkward, undressing in front of Adam Lambert, but Kris’ head must have been scrambled in the accident as well, because all he can think about is Lambert’s clothes as he puts away his gun and gets started on unbuttoning his shirt. Usually, when Kris sees Lambert, he’s wearing something dark and tight—what Kris thinks of as his villain clothes. Today, he looks almost normal. He has on a charcoal grey suit, perfectly cut, obviously tailor-made, and his hair looks… well, it looks like something out of a magazine, though it’s up for debate whether that’s a good thing or not.

“What’s up with your hair?” he asks, letting his unbuttoned shirt fall back from his shoulders as he works on the cuffs.

“Why?” Adam says, slightly panicked. “What’s wrong with it?” His hands move to hover around the strands that are standing right up, defying gravity. He ducks his head around Kris to check it out in the bathroom mirror through the open door, turning his head this way and then that. “It looks fine,” he says, relieved.

Kris opens his mouth to inform him of what actual fine hair is supposed to look like, but the words, along with all air in his lungs, abandon him before he can. Fucking ow.

Raising his arms up is not, apparently, a very good idea.

Lambert pulls the tangled undershirt free of his arms, pushes his shirt off the bed and out of the way, and eases him gently down. “Shhh,” he says, smoothing a hand over Kris’ brow. His palm feels cool against Kris’ skin; Kris leans into it instinctively.

(It’s truly fascinating how everything he does when he’s with Adam Lambert is against his better judgment. Theirs is definitely a very interesting relationship.)

It takes a couple of minutes for the pain to lessen, but Kris is still slightly out of breath when he opens his eyes. Lambert seems the exact opposite, impossibly calm and collected, as if he’s sitting in a business meeting instead of on a cop’s bed after having broken into his apartment. Kris’ eyes are drawn down to his own chest following Lambert’s gaze, and wow—that’s a lot of color. It looks like a rainbow—red, yellow, green, purple. It’s impressive.

Lambert’s hands hover over the bruises, not touching but almost close enough to feel, and when he looks up at Kris, he looks grim.

He shakes his head.

Disappointed? Annoyed?

Kris closes his eyes. He’s too tired to try and make sense of the man right now.

~

Pain meds never really work a hundred percent on Kris. His metabolism is freaky like that. (He once woke up in the operating room after surgery. The doctors had first seemed shocked, then relieved that he hadn’t woken up during.)

So it’s not a surprise that he goes in and out of consciousness all night.

The first time he wakes up, he’s so groggy, it doesn’t even occur to him to open his eyes. His eyelids feel way too heavy to move, anyway. He’s lying on his back, which is probably the only way he’ll be able to lie down for a long time, and there’s a hand resting on his forehead.

“Mmh?” Kris asks, trying to turn his head, but the movement seems to work only as well as the question does.

“Shhh.” The hand moves, brushing his sweaty bangs away from his face, and then caresses his temple and strays downwards, settling on his cheek. A kiss is pressed on the side of his head.

Lambert.

Kris parts his eyelids just a sliver, spotting the familiar ceiling of his bedroom, and turns his head slowly until Lambert’s face swims into his focus. Lambert looks tired, make-up smeared around one eye. He’s lying very, unexpectedly close to Kris.

‘You’re in my bed,’ Kris tries to say. ‘Don’t you have anywhere else to be?’ he wants to ask. But his lips don’t move and all he can do is hum.

Lambert doesn’t laugh at his pathetic attempts at communication. He runs his fingers up and down Kris’ cheek and just keeps staring at him.

It makes Kris almost grateful that he can’t talk, because for the life of him, he has no idea what he would be saying if he could.

The blue eyes—they’re really so very blue, aren’t they?—are still on him, unblinking, when Kris closes his own and falls gratefully back out of consciousness.

~

The second time he wakes up, it takes him a couple of minutes to realize that he has, in fact, woken up. In his defense, Adam Lambert, sitting cross-legged on his bed in a still impossibly uncreased suit and making origami animals, does not really seem like something that would happen in real life.

But there it is. Happening.

Kris watches Lambert’s face as he concentrates on each fold, unaware that he’s being observed, biting his lower lip at first, and then smiling down at the paper in his hands when he gets it right.

He looks beautiful.

That could just be the dreamlike quality of the moment, but Kris does remember with uncanny clarity each and every time he has met the man before, and knows for a fact that it isn’t. He’s a detective—it’s in his nature to notice things—and he sure as hell has noticed Adam Lambert. Even in his drugged-up state, he remembers studying Lambert’s face carefully the first time they met in person, taking in the perfectly shaped eyebrows, the sharp eyes with the surprisingly endearing creases around them. Now, months later, he knows so much more, has a catalogue of facial expressions and smiles and smirks, and he’d be lying if he said he never thought about them outside of work.

He has. He does.

In fact, sometimes it’s hard to fight off the images.

“What’re you making?”

Lambert looks up, surprised, and then delighted. He holds up the folded paper and says, “It’s a crane.”

Kris squints at it, trying to see. It looks like a paper folded into meaningless sharp corners, to him.

“See, the wings,” Lambert says, pointing to its sides. “And this is its beak.”

It does look sort of beak-like. “Huh.”

Lambert’s face is like a child’s—enthusiastic and waiting for appreciation. Kris instinctively puts on an impressed expression.

Lambert grins.

And then, quite unexpectedly, there’s a paper crane kissing Kris on the cheek.

“Go back to sleep,” Lambert says happily.

Kris closes his eyes.

~

Next time he wakes up he feels much more aware, which is kind of a shame, because there’s a searing ache sunk deep into his muscles from head to toe. But his lids don’t fight him this time, and his head turns to the side easily.

Lambert is still in his bed, sleeping—but no. His eyes snap open as if he’s been waiting. Cat burglar, Kris thinks. That’s probably how they all sleep.

“How are you feeling?” Lambert asks. His voice comes out raspy and makes Kris want to squirm. That’s exactly why strange people should not be sharing his bed; it’s so uncomfortable.

“Okay,” Kris says, instead of asking just what exactly Lambert thinks he’s still doing there.

Lambert, inappropriate and peculiar at the best of times, doesn’t even seem to find anything odd about the situation. He glances down at the sheet fallen halfway down Kris’ naked chest. “Are you cold?” he asks, and looks tempted to pull it up anyway when Kris shakes his head no.

It is probably completely normal for Lambert to find himself in bed with half-naked cops—which is an uncomfortable thought, to say the least.

“You don’t have to stay,” Kris says, just to have something to say. “I’ll be okay on my own, and I can always call—”

“Emily?” The name is said with a sneer, and there’s an angry lilt to Lambert’s voice.

Kris wouldn’t call Emily at this time of night. A couple of half-serious dates don’t give him that right. He does like that he’s finally found something that can hit a nerve with Lambert, though. “Yeah,” he says, watching him carefully. “What’s wrong with Emily?”

“Nothing at all, of course.” Lambert’s voice is smooth, and he turns his face to the side before Kris can get a good look at his expression.

Kris rolls his eyes. Lambert’s usually a better liar, in those rare moments when he isn’t going for outrageous honesty instead. Kris waits him out, turning his head back and fixing his eyes on the crappy bedside lamp. It’s made of glass, a tacky teal color, and cracked in one side. It had come with the apartment; he’d meant to replace it, but then… hadn’t.

The silence doesn’t even last a minute. “You really like her?”

It’s not so much the question as the tone of voice that makes Kris face Lambert again. Kris never consciously decided to keep track of Adam Lambert’s intonations, but he seems to have done it anyway, because this tone he’s using right now is disturbingly unfamiliar. And when Kris turns around, he realizes that so is the look in Lambert’s eyes.

It’s honest. Genuine. A little annoyed. And kind of sad.

Kris considers the question carefully before answering and tries to be as honest as he can with his reply. “I don’t not like her.”

Lambert bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth.

“What’s wrong with her?” Kris prods.

Lambert shrugs, as if shrugging the weight of the question off his shoulders. And when he talks, Kris notes with fascination that even though he still sounds honest, this time it’s on a much shallower level. “Her shoes, her hair. The fact that she’s a Fed. Take your pick.”

“I don’t care about her shoes.” He doesn’t comment on the Fed thing. That one kind of bothers him as well.

“Blasphemy!”

Kris smiles.

“She’s boring,” Lambert says, deliberately casual. “You could do so much better.”

“I’m boring,” Kris counters. “And I work horrible hours. I don’t really have that much to offer to a girlfriend.”

Lambert gapes at him, shocked, like Kris has just sprouted a second head.

“What?” Kris asks him, uncomfortable.

“You’re completely delusional.”

Kris rolls his eyes. That’s what people always say; it’s what they’re supposed to say. But then there’s the reality, which is that Kris really can’t make a relationship work—even if he could get someone actually interesting to date him.

Emily’s not really interesting. She just—fits the criteria.

“You want to set me up?” Kris asks snidely. Wouldn’t that be an experience?

“Oh, honey,” Lambert says, looking very frank once again, “I would never hand you over to someone else.”

It takes Kris a couple of blinks to get his meaning. They’re actually talking about this now? They never really said it out loud before. It was all flirting and touching and kissing and talking circles around the issue.

“You’re not eligible,” Kris says. It’s the best he can do with such short notice.

“Give me one good reason why not.” And of course Lambert is going to fight him over this.

“I’m a cop.” Kris states the obvious. “You’re a thief.”

“I’m interesting,” Lambert argues.

“And still a thief.”

“I’m pretty.”

Kris looks away from Lambert’s grin. “Thief,” he repeats.

“You like me.”

Kris shakes his head. Thief, thief, thief.

Lambert leans closer. “Think outside the box, Kristopher. You’d be bored to tears if you actually had what you think you should want.”

“And life would always be an adventure with you, huh? A thief—hanging out with a cop?”

Lambert’s eyes—it’s not fair that they’re so pretty, really—move down to Kris’ lips and then back up to meet his gaze. “I’d prefer Adam hanging out with Kris. I don’t do labels. If I did, I never would have talked to you that first time.”

Kris has to give him that one. Lambert is the most open-minded criminal he’s ever met.

“I just don’t live by other people’s rules.” Kris opens his mouth; Lambert interrupts. “But! That doesn’t mean I have no rules. I have my own—they make more sense to me.” He shrugs. “I live my life the way I want to live it.”

See, that—that’s exactly what Kris won’t ever be able to accept. People can’t just make up their own rules. Kris sees every day out on the streets just what happens when they try. Frustrated and annoyed, he says, “And when the day comes when you want to fuck with a cop—”

“Hey. No.” Lambert’s hand lands on Kris’ shoulder, squeezing softly, reassuringly, and stealing away his aggravation. “You know I would never do that to you.”

Kris does know that, not that he can explain how.

“I’m not a bad person. I don’t hurt anyone. I’m just not… average Joe.”

Now there’s an understatement.

“And I like you. What’s wrong with that?”

Kris sighs. It’s the painfully honest look in those painfully beautiful eyes. He never wants to say no, and yet he always has to. “Nothing,” he says with resignation. “Aside from the fact that it won’t ever amount to anything.”

~

Uncomfortable silences don’t work with them. Adam—Lambert!—is impossible to make uncomfortable, and Kris can’t keep up the silent treatment when Lambert has that pout on his face. So he tries to make conversation, because seriously, what else is he supposed to do? They’re sitting on his bed! In the middle of the night! Perfectly quiet! And the man is pouting at him!

“So. Why does the FBI call you the King?”

Lambert grins, quick and wicked. “You heard about that?”

Kris tries very hard to not roll his eyes at the childish pride. It’s just a frickin’ nickname.

“Because I am the King.”

Seriously, if Lambert grinned any bigger, his face would split. Kris nudges him with a foot. Lambert shrugs offhandedly.

“Why don’t you ask Emily?”

Kris gives in to the eye-roll this time. “I have better things to do with Emily than to talk about you.”

The good-natured smile disappears. Lambert glares daggers at him.

Kris ignores it. “I’ve heard different theories. A kid from the bureau showed me your file. And he said that they call you the King because the only picture they have of you is a blurry shot from the side, and your hair looks like Elvis’.”

Lambert smirks. Kris studies his face for clues, but it could go either way, really.

“Someone else said it’s because you stole the crown of Rudolf something?”

“The Imperial Crown of Austria,” Lambert tells him. “Allegedly,” he adds.

Yeah, because Kris was born yesterday. “Well, apparently, that crown you allegedly stole is a big deal.”

“It’s very pretty.” Lambert nods, eyes shining. Kris has no doubt that he stole it and then wore it for at least a couple of days. To bed, maybe even.

That thought should not be making Kris this happy.

“So,” he says, “which is it?”

“I’m not gonna tell you!” Lambert protests. “I am the King. Accept it and move on.”

Kris narrows his eyes at him.

~

It’s almost dawn when Kris lets Lambert feed him a couple more pain pills and lay him down (not that he ever got up) to sleep. His head starts growing fuzzy right away, and he drowses, not sleeping but not really all there, either. Lambert talks at him: about the weather, London, crickets. Though, to be honest, some of that could be Kris dreaming.

Either way, it’s not like he’s interested in the conversation. The rise and fall of Lambert’s voice is what Kris is enjoying.

“You asleep, baby?”

Kris feels the bed dip under Lambert’s weight as he lies down next to him, and glances to the side to see Lambert staring, head propped up on an elbow.

“Mmmph,” Kris says.

Lambert smiles. His lips aren’t shiny anymore, which the detective side of Kris’ brain explains as his lip-gloss wearing off, and there are freckles on them, dotting the contours. Kris wants to reach out and touch, but his arms don’t feel like moving.

Lambert‘s gaze feels heavy on Kris’ face, almost a tangible thing. It’s hard to resist that look, hard not to get carried away. Kris should have stepped back from this thing a long time ago. He should have put a stop to these meetings. He should have stopped himself from getting attached.

He should have done a lot of things differently when it comes to Adam Lambert.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Lambert murmurs, his fingers playing with Kris’ hair. It feels nice, so Kris leans closer, letting their bodies touch.

Lambert has lost his jacket, and his shirt is a ridiculous thing with shiny ribbons and frills in unexpected places. Kris tells him that, but Lambert just looks at him fondly, which probably means what left Kris’ mouth was not actually intelligible. But that’s okay, because the ridiculous shirt feels really soft against Kris’ face, and Kris wouldn’t want Lambert to be offended by his comment and pull away.

“You could have died today,” Lambert says. “Do you get that?”

Of course Kris gets that. He’s a cop. He takes that risk every day.

“You’re not allowed to die such a stupid death.” Lambert grabs his chin and pulls his face up to look him in the eyes. “You hear me?”

Kris thinks maybe he blinks in response, but he couldn’t swear to it. He feels slow and drunk.

“And you know what,” Lambert says, looking like he’s warming up to ordering Kris around, “you’re not allowed to date Emily, either.”

Kris is pretty sure his eyebrows rise up at that. They better have, because seriously? What the hell?

Lambert sets his jaw and keeps staring at him challengingly. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s not good enough for you. And I don’t want you to.”

“You don’t get a say,” Kris says, voice hoarse.

“But I do.” Lambert nods. “You know why? Because you like me.”

Kris could object to that, but Lambert fights dirty. He leans down, nuzzles Kris’ lips, and then kisses him, soft and long and drawn out. They breathe together once their lips part, and it doesn’t even occur to Kris that he should pull back—until Lambert licks back into his mouth and makes it impossible for him to, anyway.

It’s a slow, dreamy kiss. Kris blames that on drugs.

Kris’ mind is a jumble of disjointed thoughts and feelings. His pillow is soft. Lambert smells nice, and Kris wants to stay at the crook of his neck and breathe him in forever. He also wants to see him wearing that crown—the one that used to belong to Rudolf the Something—but if he sees Lambert with it, he’d definitely have to arrest the man, and no one would let Kris snuggle with a convict.

“I don’t want you to wear the crown,” he tells Lambert, though manages (just barely) to keep the rest of his thoughts about prisons and snuggling to himself. Which is just as well, because judging by the small, teasing smile decorating Lambert’s lips, he appears silly enough as it is.

“I won’t,” Lambert says, and presses a kiss to Kris’ cheek, then another under his right eye, and another to the side of his chin.

Kris sighs. Why should he even resist this? It’s probably all just a hallucination.

“Kristopher,” he hears Lambert whisper against his ear, lingeringly. Kris grabs the soft material of Lambert’s shirt in a fist and lets himself drift off.

One last sentence floats into his consciousness, and then he’s gone.

“Just think about it.”

~

Kris spends his week off camped out on his couch, watching CSI reruns.

He hides the origami crane in his sock drawer, next to his gun.

He doesn’t ask Emily out again.

The End

April 19th, 2010