s t r a n g e . b e d f e l l o w s . ( r h a p s o d y . i n . b l u e )

Strange Bedfellows
(Rhapsody in Blue)
[by victoria p.]

Rating: Adult

Summary: He wonders again what the hell he was thinking, coming here.

Notes: This is a remix of Strange Bedfellows by Saklani. Thanks so much to Devil Doll and hossgal for the beta.

Date finished: March 8, 2006
Date posted: March 26, 2006

The memory keeps him awake some nights, heart racing, palms sweaty, more fearful than he ever was at the time. Eyes closed, he remembers.

The gun is in his hand, an extension of himself, the metal warm from his body, the trigger smooth and easy to pull. He can feel adrenaline pumping in his veins, but his vision is clear, unclouded by rage. The air reeks of fear, as if it's soaked into the floor and walls of the Victory Motel the way so much blood has over the years, so much that it lingers to choke them as he and Exley fight for their lives. They say you never hear the shot that hits you, but it's a lie--he hears all the gunfire, and he knows that when a bullet hits you, it doesn't matter which one it is, or where it came from. In the dim blue light of the motel room, he can see blood soaking his shirt like graffiti in some language he's never learned.

He swallows the hot iron taste that floods his mouth at this waking nightmare, and forces his eyes open, hating his fear, his weakness. Lynn's hair shines silver in the moonlight; it's kind to her, hiding the fine lines forming around her mouth and eyes, his hard life catching up to her, too.

He remembers the bruises on her face, the feel of his fist hitting soft skin, delicate bones. He remembers the matching set of bruises he gave Exley, bloody eye, bloody mouth, and still can't figure out which betrayal hurt more.

He doesn't have to tell her. In the morning, she looks at him, blue eyes bright with tears she won't shed, and doesn't say anything. He'll stay if she asks, she knows that, and she knows why he's leaving. So she doesn't say anything except, "Be careful," and "Drive safe." She kisses his cheek. He breathes in the scent of her perfume--lilacs, nothing fancy now--and walks out.

He can see her in the rearview mirror, white dress and blonde hair shining in the bright Bisbee sunlight; he remembers the day they drove out of L.A., Exley standing on the sidewalk in his dress blues, medal around his neck, arm in a sling. Still wearing the scars of that night at the motel.

Bud has a matching set.

They'll wear those scars to the grave.

It's dark when he gets to L.A. He knows where Exley lives now, though he's never been there.

He's left Lynn--beautiful Lynn who stood by him, slept beside him, who'd kissed his cheek and let him go--behind for what may just be the stupidest idea he's ever had, and that's saying something.

He pulls into the driveway and turns off the ignition, just sits for a moment, and breathes. His knuckles are big, prominent, the skin over them stretched and white from the way he's gripping the steering wheel. He rests his forehead against them for a moment, one last touch of solidity before he throws his world away, jumps into a mess of trouble that makes the whole Nite Owl thing seem like a cakewalk--nothing but his career and his body on the line there.

Exley opens the door after the first knock, stands there in a pair of dark trousers and a white shirt, the yellow porchlight reflecting off his glasses, making his eyes impossible to read.

"White."

"Exley."

Exley jerks his head and walks back into the house, the only invitation Bud is going to get, the only one he needs. He follows. It's what he does best.

"Surprised to see you here. Is Lynn--"

"She's fine. She's--" He shakes his head, knowing Exley understands. Hating him for it a little, maybe. Hating himself more.

"Good."

"Drink?"

"Scotch, neat."

Exley nods, walks over to the bar and pours them each a glass of Dewars. Bud sits down on the blue and white striped couch that looks like it should be sitting in a bungalow on the beach. The television is on, the volume turned down, a parade of talking faces saying nothing. Same old L.A. bullshit. Bud doesn't watch TV at home.

Exley hands him the glass, sits down on the couch next to him. Bud can smell him, sweat and a faint trace of cologne. Bud doesn't know the name of it--it's nothing cheap you can buy down at the drugstore or the five and dime, not for Ed Exley, prince of the city. Smells like Exley, though, and Bud breathes it in.

He wonders again what the hell he was thinking, coming here.

"Long way to drive for a drink," Exley says, as if he knows what Bud is thinking. His voice is cool, curious. "They don't have scotch in Bisbee?"

Bud knocks back the scotch in one gulp, savors the burn as it hits his chest, his stomach. The glass is cool and smooth in his hand; Exley is cool and smooth in the darkness. Neither gives anything away.

Bud puts the glass down on the end table and stands.

"This was a bad idea."

He's at the door when Exley stops him.

"Bud."

Bud turns to look at him, lost for words. He's always let his fists, his body, do his talking, get him into and out of trouble. The trouble he's in now is like nothing he's known before.

Exley is all sharp angles--cheekbones and shadows and a smile like a knife. Bud's already all cut up inside, scars and scabs all tightly wound together together, so he shouldn't be afraid to get cut up some more, but he is. And that fear makes him angry.

He leans forward, grabs Exley's shirt--crisp, starched cotton warm under his fingertips--and hauls him close. Exley's mouth opens, but before he can speak, Bud kisses him, hard, no finesse, no gentleness to it.

Exley gasps, his breath hot and tasting of scotch, and Bud tenses, ready to be shoved or punched. Exley pulls away, but only to take off his glasses and toss them onto the hall table. His eyes are blue as an L.A. summer sky, and Bud can see the wheels turning for a second. Then Exley is grabbing him, fingers clamped tight around his arms, and kissing him, tongue slick in his mouth the way Exley is slick with the brass, slick on TV, and Bud knows he understands.

The TV still flickers in the background, Brett Chase mouthing, Just the facts, ma'am, and for a split second, Bud wonders what Jack Vincennes would say. Would he sell them out to Sid Hudgens--Queer Cops Caught Kissing! blazoned in three-inch headlines across the cover of Hush Hush? But Vincennes and Hudgens are dead, and he and Exley are alive, so what the fuck does it matter what they would think?

"Bud," Exley says, his mouth against Bud's ear, his breath warm and moist. "You think too much."

Bud has to laugh at that, his fingers fumbling as he unbuttons on Exley's shirt, the last two buttons scattering because he loses patience and yanks it open. Exley's skin is pale--too pale for a California boy--marred by the pink pucker on his shoulder where he caught the bullet. Bud touches the scar and Exley shivers, his long-fingered hands unbuttoning Bud's shirt, so he can do the same to Bud's scars.

Bud takes a deep breath, and chokes on it when Exley undoes his belt buckle and unzips his pants, shoving them down over his hips. Exley's eyebrows rise in challenge and Bud isn't going to let himself back down. Consequences be damned.

He leans back against the door and pulls Exley with him, hampered by the fact that their pants are down around their ankles.

It's strange--queer--to have another man's dick in his hand, and he hesitates for just a second, but then Exley's hand--elegant, long-fingered, too pretty to be a man's, too strong to be a woman's--wraps around him and--

"Fuck, Exley," he growls, like it's torn from his throat.

"Ed." Exley's voice is just as raw.

Bud blinks, startled. "Okay," he says, then covers Exley's mouth with his own so they don't have to talk. Like that will make it any less real.

They stroke and thrust together, the only sounds the ragged whoosh of their breathing, the wet smack of their kisses, and their low moans of pleasure as they jerk each other off. Exley comes first, shuddering, his eyes wide and dark, then fluttering closed, guarded even now. His hand tightens, strokes faster, and then Bud is coming too, warm and wet over belly and thighs, white hot pleasure choking him with its intensity.

Exley leans against him, forehead pressed to Bud's shoulder, the door at Bud's back the only thing keeping them both upright. Bud sucks in great gulping breaths of air, chest heaving, head tipped back against the door, still not thinking about what they're doing, what they've done.

A car turns the corner, headlights flashing through the curtains of the front window, and Exley jerks out of his doze, and away from Bud, eyes downcast. He steps carefully out of his pants and bends to pick them up. He's got a nice ass, though Bud doesn't think he'll share that observation just yet.

"You'll stay?"

"Yeah."

Exley turns off the television, finally, and leads him into the bedroom, where they finish undressing in a silence that straddles the fence between awkward and okay; Bud's not sure yet which side it's going to fall on.

The room is dark, and the blinds are drawn tight, tiny slivers of moonlight thrown across the bed like the bars of a cell.

"I was thinking about rejoining the force," Bud says once they're lying on separate sides of Exley's king-size bed.

Exley turns to look at him, and starts to laugh. Bud tenses, feeling like he's going to puke, but then Exley puts a hand on his shoulder, briefly, and says, "I think we can find a place for you. But not tonight."

Bud exhales in relief. "Okay."

Exley nods and closes his eyes. "Good night, Bud."

"Good night... Ed."

Exley's mouth curves in a small smile, and Bud closes his eyes.

The sheets on the bed are soft and cool and blue, and while they don't drive away the nightmares, Bud kind of likes knowing Exley--Ed--is only an arm's-length away, dreaming the same dreams.

end

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Disclaimer: LA Confidential and all its characters belong to James Ellroy, his publishers and various other corporate entities. This fan-written fiction intends no copyright infringement .