anactoria

Title: Raspberry Sauce
Author:

anactoria
Characters: Leon, D, Chris
Rating: PG-13
Written for

stagesoflove Week 2. Prompt: Icecream
Week 1: Pie

Big bro! Look! D bought us icecream!

Chris hurtles towards Leon so fast he almost trips over, and holds the cone up with an excited, sticky grin. It's covered in violently red raspberry sauce, and a few drops splatter onto the sidewalk as the icecream tilts precariously in Chris's six-year-old grip.

Leon can't help thinking about the dead woman, then. Seven months pregnant when her boyfriend came at her with the kitchen knife, and it's one crime scene Leon's never going to forget. Looked like something out of a horror movie, except the smell made goddamn sure Leon knew it was real, and then the cop on his left swallowed and muttered something about just another no-good crackwhore, and it was all Leon could do not to smack him in the mouth. It's gonna stay with him for months.

So when he says, "I'm not eating that," he's scowling, and his voice comes out rougher than he intended.

Chris's grin wobbles, vanishes.

"Shit," Leon says, sighing. "I'm sorry. It's all right, kiddo. I-- "

But Chris's lower lip is already trembling, and then Chris has his face hidden in the skirt of D's cheongsam, fists bunched in the embroidered silk, smearing icecream and raspberry sauce everywhere. And D just meets Leon's gaze over his head, eyebrows drawn together, and gives him the Look.

For once, Leon's glad that he has to be back on duty in twenty minutes. He mumbles something about traffic and turns tail, heaving a sigh of relief once he's round the corner and free from D's reproving stare. He's still going to be in for it later, but work gives him an excuse not to think about that for the rest of the afternoon.

Leon gets pretty drunk that night, and he manages to forget about the dead woman and his own goddamn motormouth stupidity and the fucking raspberry sauce for most of the evening.

And the only reason he ends up outside the shop at 2:30 in the morning is that the bartender wouldn't give him back his keys and Chinatown's closer than his place, and the only reason he's so relieved when D doesn't look pissed off is that he's dog-tired and doesn't want to be yelled at. And the weak tea D pours for him and D's cool hand on his forehead are only soothing because it's the middle of July, he's sweating like a pig, and he needs to lie down.

But even so, when he wakes up the next morning with a stinking hangover and a kitten trying to climb his head, he can't help feeling like somehow, everything's okay.

Week 3: Cookies