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You let the detective stay with you the second night in Martinaise. He hasn’t been able to scrounge up the reál to pay for his room, and he won’t let you sell the spinner caps, so you manage to distract Garte and slip the detective up to your room. You could let him sleep in the Kineema, you know, but you are absolutely not doing that. His room is locked - you refuse to let him use your tools to break in - and, well, your bed is large enough for two, so you tell him that if he takes a shower - a long and preferably hot one - he can stay with you. He beams at you so brightly it almost hurts your eyes, and you turn away, clearing your throat. He spends a very long time in there, long enough that steam begins to curl out from under the door, and you start to think very seriously about drowning, and then he comes out, cleaner, pulling on a t-shirt he had found in a trash can earlier that day. You shudder, then go with him onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette. He begins to shiver in the winter air, with his wet hair and his t-shirt and briefs, arms wrapped around himself, so you stub out your cigarette and say, “Let’s go to bed, detective.”
You brush your teeth - the detective uses his finger, but at least he’s using something, you think - and then climb into bed on the left side, leaving plenty of room for the detective. He stands there, staring at you. He looks, if you didn’t know better, terrified. “Did you change your mind, detective?” you say, a little snappish with embarrassment.“Did you want to sleep in the dumpster?”
“No,” he says, stumbling towards the bed. “No, I don’t want that.” He puts one knee up on the mattress.
“And detective - take that shirt off. You are not wearing it to bed.”
“Sure, Kim,” he says, peeling it off and dropping it onto the floor. He climbs in next to you, the mattress sagging under his weight, threatening to roll you into him, and you reach over, and turn out the light.
You each lay there on your backs, you staring at the ceiling, him staring at - who knows what. The streetlights come in faintly through the blinds. The radio-alarm-clock glows on the bedside table. You can hear him breathing, louder than yourself, can smell your soap on him, the smell of old alcohol seeping out of his pores. He is very warm. You can feel it through the sheet, through the small space between you, your shoulders almost brushing on the bed.
“Kim,” he says, almost tentatively, “What do people do to help fall asleep? Only - I have trouble with that, I think.”
You think. “Many people use mnemonic devices or recitation techniques to fall asleep. Counting dogs, that sort of thing. I myself go through the drive train of the Kineema part by part until I fall asleep. Other people meditate, or exercise or stretch before bed-”
And I like a good orgasm, you think, but don’t say.
“I think I always got drunk,” he says, as if he’s apologizing. Then he says, in that unsettling way he has of saying exactly what you’re thinking, “Kim, do some people jerk off?”
You turn your head on the pillow to look at him. He’s already looking at you. “Yes, detective, some people jerk off.”
“Kim,” he says, and there’s a rustle as he moves, a darkness coming between you and the light seeping through the blinds. You think he’s leaning up on his elbow, over you. “Kim, I don’t think I remember how to jerk off.”
And, well, it’s not the strangest come-on you’ve ever received. And you think - there might be real panic in his voice. Surely, even if the detective’s total amnesia is real, he can’t have forgotten how to pleasure himself? The man remembers how to walk, doesn’t he? How to run? As if in protest, your calves twinge, and you stretch, a full body thing, to stretch them out. The detective’s breathing hitches. You think, based on the angle of his face, he’s looking at you under the sheet.
“Don’t worry, detective,” you say. “I’m sure it will come back to you.”
A pause. Then, “what if it doesn’t?”
You frown, turning to him. “It’s not a difficult skill to learn, detective.”
“Maybe-” a pause, and then he says it, all in a rush, like he has to get it out. “Maybe you could show me?”
Ah. So it is a come-on.
It is also a terrible, awful, very bad idea. This man is a colleague. You’re pretty sure he’s not straight - not that it matters, because he is a colleague. He is a brain-damaged alcoholic mess who, you are pretty sure, is behind the submerged Coupris 40 in the harbor. Before the shower you forced him to take this evening, he was one of the worst-smelling things you had smelled that was still alive, and, finally, only yesterday, you had seen him lick alcohol off of a sticky countertop one floor below you.
And yet….
You can’t deny the detective attracts you. He’s everything you like in a man - broad-shouldered, large hands, a little fat. He’s funny. You like the shoes. He’s clever - he’s insanely clever. He also might be actually insane.
Besides, if he ever tries to say anything - to blackmail you, even - you can just deny it. You’re pretty sure that even Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s word will be believed over this man’s, who was called Captain Sober by his own subordinates.
Something about this thought makes you sad. And with that, you turn onto your side, facing the detective. You can make out his shape in the dark, the lights washing over his shoulder, his arm. A glitter that is his eyes. “Yes,” you say. “I think, maybe, I could show you.”
His breath catches in his throat. “Really?” he says, and then, “I mean - yeah, that’d be great, Kim. Really doing me a solid here. You know. So I can sleep.” He tries what you assume are finger guns and a leer.
You take a deep breath, and, willing your voice to stay steady, say, “Do you want to watch me, first?”
“Yeah,” he says, and he sounds strongly breathless. “Yeah.”
So you push your boxers down, and slide your hand down, and he leans over you, watching, as you take yourself in hand. “Wow, Kim,” he says. “I like your cock.”
“Thank you, detective,” you say, half-closing your eyes and stroking yourself. “I’m fond of it myself.” This is bizarre. Still, something about this is doing it for you, and you’re beginning to harden fully. Maybe it’s the detective. “Like this,” you say, stroking yourself slowly and showily. “See? Now you try.”
Harry nearly trips over himself to shove his briefs down, and - wow. Huh. You’d noticed the bulge in his disco pants - how could you not, the crotch was practically painted on - but when he touches himself, that is really a picture. He’s half-hard, and when he wraps his hand around himself you shuffle a little closer, to see.
He winces. His grip is too tight. It’s all wrong. “Let me see,” you say, leaning up on one elbow to look at him. A problem to diagnose. “It’s - it’s not a steering lever, detective, which you really should not grip that tightly anyway. It’s not going to get away from you.”
“It might,” he says, and refuses to elaborate.
“Allow me?” you say, and he nods, breathless. You wrap your hand around his large one, which is wrapped around his cock. He gasps and tries to play it off immediately, but you already are shifting your hips against the sheet as your thumb brushes the soft skin of his cock. “Like this,” you say, and slowly move your wrist, your grip light. “Lighter,” you say in his ear, “Softer,” and he nods, mesmerized, as you move your hands together, stroking him.
Soon enough he’s panting and whimpering, writhing his hips, wet precum streaking between your fingers, saying, “Kim, Kim - god, it feels so good, does it always feel this good?”
“It should,” you say in his ear, “it’s supposed to, god, yes, Harry,” and your hands are moving faster now.
“What else,” he says, “what else can I do? I mean, this is incredible, but - I feel like there’s something else-”
Is he angling for you to suck him off? You don’t think so. You’re playing by a set of rules, here, which is what you’re best at. These rules are just - stranger - than most. Amnesiac detective, check. Partner happy to lend a helping hand, check.
“Some men,” you say, trying to keep your breathing steady, “enjoy fingering themselves.”
A whimper, and then Harry pants, “I, ah, I think I like that.”
You think, I bet you do, detective. “Try it,” you say. “Suck on your finger - yes, like that-”
Harry reaches around, his hand brushing your cock. You gasp and buck forward into him. He whines. “I can’t reach,” he says, “Kim, I can’t reach.”
His angle’s all wrong. Fuck it, you think. In for a centime, in for a reál. “Suck,” you say, putting two fingers up the general direction you think his mouth is, and they are suddenly enveloped in a wet, hot heat. His tongue slides over your knuckles and you pant. You let him suck and slobber, and then say, “Enough,” you say, pulling them out of his mouth. You pull back - he whines, rolling onto his back to look up at you, eyes glittering and face completely desperate - and you push on his shoulder, say, “on your back, detective. Knees up.”
He obeys so quickly, so sweetly, that your cock bounces as you kneel over him. He watches it, amazed. “You keep doing that,” you say to him as you take your hand off his cock. With one hand, you hold his thigh, and with the other hand, you brush your fingertips gently over -
He curses, loudly. “Detective,” you say, looking up at him, as he looks at you with an expression of disbelief. “I must encourage you to be quieter. We are not the only people in the Whirling.”
Not by a long shot, you think. God, you hope the Hardie boys aren’t hearing this. You are directly over their booth, after all.
He puts a hand over his mouth and nods, eagerly. “Good boy,” you say, only half-serious, but his cock throbs and a thick pearl of liquid seeps out. Fuck, it makes your mouth water. You flex your hand on his thigh and circle his asshole gently with one finger, pushing in -
He groans, muffled behind his hand, and starts to whimper as you continue to finger him - one finger, then two. He’s so hot inside, his thigh hot under your hand. His hand stills on his cock as he watches you, mouth open. He’s beautiful to look at in the dim slatted light of the blinds, the shape you can make out, the gleam of sweat starting on his chest. Fuck, you’re hard. “Keep touching yourself,” you rap out, and he startles, and starts stroking himself again, and you watch the head of his cock disappear into and out of his fist. He’s fucking your fingers, fucking his hand, trapped between the two, and you breathe again, “Very good.” He whines. He’s not going to last long, you think, as you curl your fingers, reaching -
With a long - and very loud - groan, the detective comes, clenching tight around your fingers, coming all over his chest, his stomach. You watch, fascinated, your mouth open.
“Kim,” he says, fumbling for your cock, half-sitting up, your fingers still in him,“you - please, you need to-”
As soon as he gets his big damp hand on you, slippery with his own come, it’s all over for you - biting your lip, just a low grunt, you come, striping his belly, his chest, his thighs. “Wow,” he says, his eyes wide and delighted. “Holy fuck, Kim!”
You don’t respond for a minute, kneeling over him, head bowed, eyes closed, trying to control your breathing. Only when he reaches out tentatively - you can feel it, even with your eyes closed - and puts his hand on your shoulder, do you open your eyes. The detective lays on his back, absolutely defiled, beaming up at you.
“Don’t move,” you tell him, and go to get a damp washcloth from the bathroom, your legs shaking as you get off the bed. When you come back, he’s still laying in the same position, star-fishing, staring up at the ceiling. “Here,” you say, and hand it to him. He sits up, wiping himself down, then tosses it in the corner, where it hits with a wet splat.
You wince, then climb back into bed, where he immediately plasters himself to you. The detective, apparently, is a cuddler. You did not expect to learn this today.
“Wow,” he says into the back of your neck. “Does it, uh, always feel like that?”
“I don’t know, detective,” you say, trying for dry. Trying to rein yourself back in. Your heart is still hammering, hard, in your chest. You haven’t come that hard in a long time. “I don’t know how it felt for you.”
“It felt like I was dying, for a minute there,” he says, honestly. “It was a little scary, but I kind of didn’t care? I mean, it was just - everything went silent, and it was just me, and you, the two of us. I mean, we were the only things in the world-”
“Ah,” you say. You can feel your ears flushing. You stare at the red numbers on the clock radio. 23:47. You should really get to sleep, especially if the detective is going to insist on running around all of Martinaise again tomorrow. “No, it doesn’t always feel like that.”
“Oh.” A shuffle behind you, as he comes even closer. His hot breath on your neck, his chest hair tickling your back. “Is that, uh, a good thing?”
“It depends on who you ask,” you say. “I would say yes.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Disco.”
You snort. “Yes. Disco.”
You close your eyes, drifting a little, when he says from behind you, “Kim, can you maybe go through the drive train of the Kineema? Out loud?”
“Khm?” You open your eyes, briefly, then close them again. “Oh. Of course, detective. Well, of course, the Kineema is a rear-wheel drive vehicle. At the front of the car, we have the flywheel, which connects the engine to the clutch, which, of course, connects to the transmission through a series of shafts. If we are being specific…”
You hear his breathing settle, then slow, then even out…
You don’t know when he falls asleep, because you fall asleep too, somewhere in between the differential and the rear axle, with the detective warm and solid at your back.