Dulce et Decorum (continued)

Title: Dulce et Decorum (5/?)
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, violence and sexual content
Warnings: violence, language, mentions of prostitution, mentions of sexual kinks (S&M)
Disclaimer: It’s all made-up lies. No harm intended, no profit made.
A/N: The Stephen King quote is from his novel ‘Dreamcatcher’. Used with utmost love and respect for the author.
Beta: tularia.


Chapter five

Wednesday
Evening

For once, the DCI was at loss with what to do.

Orlando had been brought to St. Charles Hospital, the DCI learned, and he strode along the corridor to find the boy. Sometime during their short discussion on the phone Orlando had lost consciousness again, and that had been Viggo’s cue to call the ambulance. Viggo had been already in his car then, and not knowing what else to do he had driven to Orlando’s apartment anyway, and watched the medics retrieve the boy; he had however drawn the line to actually following the ambulance to the hospital. Apparently, the good people from the accident and emergency department had called the police, just like the DCI had predicted, and when Viggo himself received a call from Urban a few hours later he finally made up his mind and made his way to meet Orlando.

Now what can you say to someone who has been beaten and kicked and broken? It wasn’t fair that someone like Orlando, someone so young and beautiful, had been forced to go through this. The boy was sitting on a hospital bed, his shoulders slightly slumped, and was playing with the silver ring on his right ring finger. Sensing that someone was standing at the door he raised his gaze and saw the DCI.

“Orlando,” Viggo said, his tone not quite even, and couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath when he saw the full extent of the boy’s injuries. Orlando looked a fright with his black eye, split lip, swollen nose and bandaged ribs; the hospital gown he wore only enhanced his paleness and the dark bruises on his face. The eye that wasn’t swollen shut was looking at him blankly. “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Viggo said, taking a few more steps to come and stand beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Shit,” Orlando said bluntly. “I hurt everywhere. I can’t see with my left eye. But I’ve been much worse. Really, I have,” he insisted when the DCI looked at him sceptically, “I broke my back a few years ago. That was even shittier than this; this doesn’t actually even come close.”

”The nurse said you have rebroken your nose and bruised your ribs,” Viggo said. The woman had shaken her head sadly when he had asked about Orlando; pretty boys like him, always in trouble, she had said, people always want to make them pay. Poor thing.

“Gee, that must be why it hurts so fucking much,” Orlando said, full of sarcasm. A persistent blush tried to fight its way to his face; he couldn’t believe he had broken down on the phone and cried to this man, not after what he had done. “So, what are you doing here? I already talked to this handsome bloke, Karl something” – Viggo couldn’t help the little smile; it figured that Orlando was already on a first name basis with Constable Urban – “and I told him that I don’t know who it was, but he sounded a bit familiar, and he had Jude’s keys. That’s all I know.”

“He let you live,” the DCI said, and it was more of a question than a statement. “Do you know why?”

Orlando tried to shrug but grimaced in pain and stopped in mid-motion. “No idea, man. Maybe he was scared away by my phone ringing, or maybe… I don’t know.”

”I thought you were just ignoring my calls,” Viggo said without thinking, deeply bothered that he’d been annoyed at Orlando for not answering, and at the same time someone had been beating the shit out of the boy; he should have known that something was wrong. He should have known that Orlando wasn’t safe as long as the killer walked the streets.

“I was, you wanker.” Orlando cracked a smile. “But I’m glad you kept calling; I’ve no idea if I could’ve called help myself.” His face darkened as he saw the subtle way the DCI was checking out his injuries, and his mood plummeted again. “Don’t you fucking pity me,” Orlando said, turning his head away. “I know you still despise me for what I am. I don’t want you standing there feeling sorry for me now that my face is ruined.”

The DCI looked at him with an honest look of surprise on his handsome face. “I’m not pitying you, Orlando,” he said. “Far from it. I’m here to make sure you’re safe. What your face looks like is not important; what’s important is that you’re alive.”

The boy turned to look at him with a sneer on his lips. “Not important? I think you’ve forgotten that I’m, in fact, a whore. You reckon I’ll easily find a bloke who will pay five hundred quid to fuck me looking like this?” he snapped and then coughed, his throat feeling dry and scratchy. His bruised ribs protested against this action and the boy grimaced, turning away from the DCI to hide his reaction.

“You’re in pain; I’ll ring the nurse,” Viggo said, seeing how the boy struggled to cope with his injuries, and not quite knowing what else to do. Orlando shook his head.

“Leave it. And leave me alone, I don’t need your compassion or empathy or what the fuck ever. Go away.”

“At least have a drink,” the DCI insisted and poured a boy a glass of water. Orlando glared at him but accepted the glass as it was handed to him.

“Fine, I’ll drink, if it’s that important to you,” he pouted and took a long swig, and then another, noticing only now how thirsty he really was. Only when the glass was empty did he speak again. “Okay, and now that you have done the good deed of the day you can just leave. I can take care of myself, I don’t need you lecturing me.”

“Drop the attitude, will you,” Viggo said irritably. The boy was being impossible again; most probably his pride was still prickled about the previous night, but right now he could do with a bit of cooperation. “Someone’s out there to harm you. You could try and take that seriously.”

“What the fuck do you care?” Orlando shouted despite his sore throat. “You’ve made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in me whatsoever; that you can’t afford me, for fuck’s sake! What business is it of yours what I decide to do with my life?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Viggo said sharply and then reined in his annoyance. “Two dead bodies are more than enough in this particular case. I don’t want you to become the third.”

“So what would you have me do?” Orlando asked calmly. “Go into hiding? Safe house or anything of that sort is a big no. I won’t live my life in fear because of some wacko. I’ve come too fucking far to start being afraid now, Viggo.” The last word was said with such softness that Viggo had to clear his throat before speaking again.

“What are you going to do after you’re discharged from the hospital? Your house isn’t safe. You can’t work,” Viggo said. “Be reasonable. I’m offering you an alternative here.”

“I have savings,” Orlando said, but his voice didn’t sound so sure anymore. “And I could always get the locks changed.”

“What will keep this person from attacking you again? Say you leave your house in the morning to attend your class; who’s to say they won’t be waiting for you to come and offer them the opportunity to finish the job?” the DCI pressed on.

Orlando’s face had paled during his little speech but he remained stubborn. “Stop it,” Orlando said. “I’m not going into a safe house. No fucking way.”

Viggo smiled a little. “Who was talking about a safe house?”

* * *

Going home with the young man wasn’t as difficult as Viggo had thought. Orlando had warmed to the idea after the initial reluctance, and while he changed from the hospital gown to his street clothes Viggo spoke with the nurse in charge. No-one at the a&e cared about Orlando leaving with him; they only gave him a lot of home treatment advice regarding his nose and ribs, as well as some rather mild painkillers Orlando gratefully accepted. He was also told to take it easy for a few weeks with the ribs, and Orlando assured them that he was going to take it very easy, since even breathing hurt.

“I have more powerful stuff at home, though,” he remarked when they were in Viggo’s car. “For my back, you know. It’s better now but sometimes it really hurts.” He opened one of the bottles and took a few pills dry, waving away the bottle of water Viggo belatedly offered, having fished it from somewhere under the front seat.

“You’ve been on them since your accident?” Viggo asked, glancing sideways at Orlando. The boy seemed fidgety and nervous; the DCI couldn’t help the thought that he perhaps was suffering of some kind of withdrawal symptoms. “I’ve heard some meds can be pretty addictive.”

“I’m okay,” Orlando said sharply. “I’m not a junkie.”

“Never said you were,” Viggo said placatingly and wisely dropped the subject. “Do you need any stuff from your place? I can provide you with some basic clothing but you’d probably prefer your own. And your toiletries, and everything else you might need.”

“Thanks, that’d be decent,” the boy said politely but continued looking out of the window. It was already dark outside, and Viggo could see Orlando’s reflection in the window surface; he was biting his lip, his brow tightly furrowed.

Are you in pain? Viggo almost asked, but it was obvious that he was and so he said nothing. Orlando’s apartment wasn’t far and soon he stopped the car in front of the building. “I’ll be quick,” he said. “There are probably a few of our guys there, taking fingerprints and other stuff. You know it’s a very high possibility that the man who attacked you is Elijah and Jude’s murderer, and this is only our second contact with the guy. We’ll need everything we’re able to get.”

“I know,” the boy said quietly. “I’ll come with you, it’s quicker that way.”

* * *

DS Bean found that he couldn’t find rest that evening; he’d tried watching telly, reading the book that he’d started ages ago and even doing the dishes, but he couldn’t get rid of the feeling. There was something nagging at him in the back of his mind, a thought that he should concentrate more on Elijah; and so it was that the boy’s parents received a guest the same night.

Mrs. Wood was a short woman with a small frame and the bluest eyes DS Bean could ever remember seeing. She was the kind of woman that roused all your protective instincts; sweet and delicate looking, seemingly in need of a strong man to take care of her. Right now Bean found that he wanted to hug the lady and apologise for the harshness of the world that took away her only son.

“I’m sorry to bother you again,” Bean said humbly. “Especially this late. May I come in?”

“Of course,” she said quickly and stepped aside to allow him in. “Any news? Have you caught the man who did this to my ‘Lij?” Her voice was hopeful and her eyes red, and he could tell that she had most probably slept very little since Monday evening. A feeling of deep pity stabbed him, and he had to struggle to find his words.

“I’m sorry, we haven’t arrested anyone, but we have a few good leads that we are investigating,” he said kindly. Obviously it wasn’t the kind of news the lady of the house had hoped for but she nodded nonetheless.

“Can I offer you a cup of tea, or coffee? My husband isn’t home,” she said.

“Tea sounds wonderful, thank you; but I would like to take a look at Elijah’s room again, if that’s okay,” Bean said. That was fine with Mrs. Wood and she promised to bring him a cup of tea upstairs.

“One thing; do you know if your son had a mobile phone? It didn’t come up the last time I was here,” Sean said. The woman thought for a moment and then shook her head.

“Not that I know of. That boss of his offered him a mobile but he said no. Figured he didn’t need one,” Mrs. Wood said. A frown marred her face. “That man wasn’t a good employer. Lij didn’t like his job at all. He was so badly overworked; he often had to bring that stuff home and do them outside the office hours. Really now, what kind of an employer exhausts their workers like that?”

The DS listened to her with growing interest. “He brought work home? Are there any of his papers here now?”

“Sure, they’re in the study,” she said, and there was a little spark in her that had been missing earlier; Bean knew that she was happy to be of help, no matter how little, and he thanked her generously when she returned with a folder in her hand. “Here’s all, I think. He mostly used my old typewriter. We don’t have a computer at home.”

Back in Elijah’s room Sean looked around. A typical boy’s room, walls painted in blue, a few footie posters here and there – Elijah had apparently supported West Ham United - a blue carpet on the floor and very simple curtains. From the door the bed was on the right side of the room, facing a little bookshelf on the left side. Under the window was Elijah’s desk, and under it an overflowing garbage bin. Next to the door was the wardrobe.

Nothing had changed since he last visited; the desk was still in wild disarray, pens and pencils scattered around, a few movie tickets and some candy in a messy pile. The drawers of the desk had been searched and nothing out of the ordinary had been found, but Bean felt the excited tingle in his stomach that told him he was about to find something. But what? There were a couple of paperbacks in the small bookshelf near the bed, and the DS browsed through them to see if there was something hidden between the pages, but nothing came up. A few lines of a Stephen King book had been underlined; Just like you’re running away now, you fucking coward! - but it didn’t mean anything to the DS so he let it slide.

Sean put the book away and came across a pile of photographs, featuring Elijah and a blonde girl, hugging and having fun at some park; first he thought she was perhaps a girlfriend, but on a closer look they appeared to bear some family resemblance to each other. Sister then, he decided, or a cousin maybe. Sighing he put away the photos and sat down on Elijah’s bed, opening the folder Mrs. Wood had handed him; reports, shipping documents, a few paper sheets that had only written notes on them… After a few minutes of quiet perusal Sean’s interest was captured by a certain name that seemed to pop up quite often in the text, but only in the handwritten part.

Rippleway Wharf.

Frowning slightly he leafed through the pages, searching for something he thought he had seen before in one of the papers. Csokas Wharf. Now, DS Bean wasn’t an expert when it came to export or to the workings of the port of London, but it struck him odd that a company should need not one but two terminals.

“What are you up to, Csokas,” Bean muttered. Right then Mrs. Wood came in with a steaming mug in her hand and offered it to Sean.

“He was going to quit his job soon,” she said, nodding at the papers. “He had this friend, and I heard them talking, and ‘Lij said he would leave as soon as possible. It’s… We’ve been a bit tight on money lately,” she said slowly, “and we’ve needed the extra income, certainly, but I didn’t want him to waste his youth on that kind of workplace. He told me not to worry, though. I think he had some other job in mind, something that would pay much better.”

“Really,” Bean said. The tea in the yellow mug was scalding hot, just he way he liked it, and he had to blow on it repeatedly before he could take the first sip. It was fruity and delicious, and Sean smiled in sincere appreciation. “This friend of his, what is his name?” Jude. It has got to be Jude, he thought.

“Dick,” Mrs. Wood said and blushed prettily. “I don’t know his last name, I’m sorry.”

* * *

Back at his apartment Orlando disappeared to his bedroom to pack his most essential belongings, asking Viggo to fetch him some toiletries from the bathroom. The DCI had stared in confusion at the endless rows of shampoos and conditioners, and finally grabbed randomly two of each, as well as a tube of toothpaste and a needlessly complicated toothbrush from the cabinet and stuffed them into the toiletry bag he found in the shelf.

“You ready?” Orlando asked flatly.

Viggo, who was speaking with one of the Scene of Crime Officers, excused himself and turned to look at Orlando who was standing next to him with a black sports bag at his feet. He was very pale and looked tired, and when his gaze fell on the tea stains on the carpet he visibly blanched.

“You got everything? Alright then. I’ll hear the rest of this tomorrow, right?” he said to Officer Serkis, and at the man’s nod he and Orlando left the apartment, Viggo taking Orlando’s heavy bag and making a lame joke of tiles and bricks to lighten the mood. The boy was quiet in the car, opting to look out of the window, and Viggo switched on the radio to fill the silence.

Viggo had never been vain by any standards, or felt self-conscious about the way he lived, but he felt very keenly the difference between the boy’s fancy place and his own bachelor flat; but Orlando didn’t say anything other than it smells nice here and he relaxed. He brought the boy’s bag to his bedroom; it figured that Orlando would need the bed because of his back and other injuries, and the couch in the living room was comfortable enough for him to sleep on. Orlando came to stand by the door, leaning lightly on the frame.

“I think you should see this,” Orlando finally said, biting the uninjured part of his lower lip.

It took a few seconds for Viggo to realise that Orlando was holding a CD. “What’s that?”

“Our customers,” Orlando said curtly. “You have a comp? Come, I’ll show you.”

Viggo’s laptop was on the living room table and he switched it on, inserting the CD into the drive; he then double-clicked an icon on the desktop and leaned back on the couch, looking questioningly up at the boy. He still hadn’t decided whether he could trust Orlando; he seemed honest enough, but the DCI couldn’t get over the feeling that the boy knew a lot more than he was telling.

“You were interested in Jude’s bloke, right?” Orlando asked. “Well, as far as I know he could be one of his clients; actually, I’m pretty sure he is. All his client data is on this CD. Nothing fancy, just first names and phone numbers, and likes and dislikes, all the usual stuff. No last names, though.”

Viggo stared at the screen. “Richard’s johns,” he read aloud. “Who’s Richard?”

Orlando rolled his eyes. “That was the stupid name Jude used; Richard Greenleaf. Didn’t want to use his real name with johns.” He poked at the screen. “From here downward the guys are the old clients from Sinclair’s,” he said. “I’m thinking the guy could be among those, judging by what he said about the bloke. You know, Jude even said something about wanting to quit the business soon. I think his guy would like to know what’s happened to Jude, since they were so close and all.”

“If we find him we’ll inform him,” Viggo said, but his eyes were already scanning the document, looking for a familiar name. Everything he had heard so far made him think of a certain gentleman.

* * *

Bean put the papers away, certain now of one thing. Elijah had been up to something. There were many dates in the written notes, a couple of names here and there, and a phone number. All further investigation would have to wait for tomorrow, though; he didn’t feel like going back to the Yard this late at night. Mrs. Wood had stopped by to ask if he wanted something to eat, a few sandwiches perhaps, but he had declined.

Something still felt off, though. Sean’s eyes wandered around the room; what was he missing? His gaze fell on the desk, and then under it. Something about the garbage bin…

Promptly Sean emptied the bin on the floor, thanking his lucky stars that Elijah hadn’t stored any fruit peels or anything else of slippery nature in there, and started going through the stuff. Some post-its with random notes in them, a torn Smashing Pumpkins poster, a few bills… Nothing out of the ordinary. Finally, after digging through what felt like a ton of garbage, Sean found a sheet of paper hidden under a heap of candy wrappings, crumpled into a ball and stained with what looked like coffee.



The handwriting was Elijah’s, he could tell from all those other notes he had seen; and it took him a minute to wrap his mind around the idea that the boy had what looked like a blackmail letter in his garbage bin, signed by his friend and some Leo. Dear sir… authorities… Sunday evening… Then it all fell into place; Jude’s note about the mysterious ‘L’, Elijah’s talk about quitting his job for something more profitable, Jude’s rich gentleman friend and eventually the two murders at St. James’s Park.

“Fucking hell,” he said in utter shock, and reached for his mobile. Late or not, this was something the DCI needed to hear.

* * *

In his enthusiasm Viggo managed to close the program, and when he made to complain to Orlando about computers and his utter lack of skill with them he found that the boy had inched his way to practically sit on his lap. Orlando looked down at him calmly and Viggo swallowed. It was no use denying it; still, after all this, there was the same pull, same attraction between them that had been there since they first met.

“How are you?” he asked, gentler than usual, and Orlando’s face softened.

“Better now, definitely,” he said. “Safe.”

That simple word warmed Viggo more than it perhaps should have. “I should have insisted that you change the locks immediately,” he said quietly. “I can’t believe I let you take that kind of risk, Orlando. I knew the murderer was out there.”

“You didn’t let me do anything,” Orlando said. “It was my choice, and my decision, not yours. And again I have to ask; what do you care about what happens to me? Honestly, Viggo.”

The boy’s brown eyes demanded honesty, and Viggo found that he couldn’t lie. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” he said, and the words didn’t come easily. “You don’t deserve this,” he said, and his hand lightly, very lightly skimmed Orlando’s wrapped ribs. “I’m so sorry.”

Orlando gasped quietly at the touch, and when Viggo made to take his hand away with an apology on his lips Orlando took his hand in his own and pressed it back against his side. “It doesn’t hurt right now.”

Viggo smiled a little. “You’re very brave; you know that?”

“Maybe,” Orlando said and bit his lip. “I figured you wouldn’t have any interest in me whatsoever now that…” Orlando’s voice trailed off. Why should he ruin this moment by bringing up his silly insecurities? Viggo was holding him close and speaking with him; and Orlando didn’t want his pity, didn’t need it. That wasn’t what he was after.

“Now that what?” Viggo said, prodding very gently at Orlando’s stomach. “Go on, finish that thought.”

“Now that I’m broken,” Orlando said softly. He had seen himself in the toilet mirror back at the hospital, and was filled with a vivid sense of sadness at being… ruined. That his face had been ruined.

“You are not broken,” Viggo said with such vehemence that Orlando raised his head from where he was resting it on Viggo’s shoulder, surprised. “You are not broken; you are well and whole and perfect,” he said more softly. “Don’t ever think that you are not, Orlando. You are.”

“Why, DCI Mortensen, are you going all soft on me,” Orlando asked very quietly, his eyes fixed on Viggo’s. “Really now, where is this world going?”

“Can you please stop speaking for a second,” Viggo requested. “I would like to kiss you now.”

Orlando made a little noise and twisted so that he could meet the other man’s lips, but gasped as his ribs protested. “Fuck,” he murmured. “Could we take this to somewhere more comfortable? I’d hate to make this shit worse, even if it was by something as wonderful as necking with you on your couch.”

Viggo snorted a quiet laugh. “Okay, let’s get you up.” It took some manoeuvring and some awkward twists but finally both men were standing and Viggo was reminded, once again, that they were actually of equal height; Orlando was so slender in frame and boyish that he appeared smaller, but when they were standing like this they could easily look each other in the eyes and kiss. For whatever reason that thought was intensely erotic for Viggo.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Viggo confessed when their foreheads met and Orlando’s warm breath ghosted on his lips. “This isn’t fair to you, Orlando. Me dealing with my shit isn’t fair to you. You shouldn’t have to put up with this.”

“Shut up,” Orlando said. “Let me decide what’s fair to me, and what kind of behaviour I’m willing to put up with. You know, I’ve met quite a few blokes in my life, and I can tell who are for keeps and who aren’t. You are, definitely. So stop trying to convince me otherwise.”

“Quiet, you,” Viggo said softly, and finally crossed the little distance between their lips. Orlando sighed as their lips met, and opened his mouth to entice Viggo’s tongue inside. When their tongues finally met halfway Viggo became aroused so intensely and so quickly he was certain he would come in his jeans before they even made it to his bed. Orlando’s hands came to undo the buttons of his shirt, and when his fingers grazed Viggo’s nipples he couldn’t help the gasp that escaped. “Bedroom, right. Come on.”

Orlando laughed as Viggo took his hand in his and lead him to the hallway and then to his bedroom. “Nice,” he said, but he wasn’t really looking at anything other than Viggo in his jeans that were tented on the front and the half-buttoned shirt that was now more ruffled than it had been mere minutes ago.

Necking on a couch might have been nice, but full-on snogging on a bed was heavenly, Viggo decided, and it was a bit difficult to remember to be gentle and careful with Orlando, when the boy was twisting and writhing on the bed next to him.

“Careful,” Viggo admonished, and gently pressed Orlando to lie still on the bed. Slowly, looking at Orlando as if asking for permission, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against the boy’s. Oddly, there was no feeling of guilt or wrongness in letting himself be with Orlando; there was only elation, and quiet joy of having been given a second chance. A sudden noise startled them both, and Viggo’s face darkened when he realised it was his mobile, ringing in his pocket.

“Damn thing,” he said, and rolled over to get the thing out. “I have to get that call, I’m sorry.” Orlando shrugged and the DCI reached for his phone. “What?” he said, rather unwelcomingly. Orlando’s fingers were drawing patterns on his thigh and he had to still the boy’s hand to be able to concentrate on the call.

“Viggo, I got it,” Sean said without preamble. “I know who the killer is. It’s all in the fucking papers.” He waved the letter triumphantly. “Marton fucking Csokas.”


TBC in Chapter Six