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Sunday 17th January, 23:52, a sloshing bathtub in a wrecked and dingy apartment somewhere in downtown LA, California.
The bath water was tepid by now and the skin on the disgraced detective's fingertips was now wrinkled and prune like.
Detective Cecil Cole Tinsley, private investigator, had in the last eight hours, been dishonourably discharged, accused of third degree murder, beaten to a pulp by his immediate superior, and been harshly pleasured by his only-too-eager stress reliever. He saw his bath as well deserved.
Allowing himself a moment to breathe made him realise how tense every muscle had been, in his chest, in his arms, in his back. His eyelids felt heavy, drooping over his two blue eyes stained purple by bruises and yellow from lack of sleep. The cut on his lip still swollen and stinging, both from the persistent impact of his boss's wedding ring and from where his 'companion' had caught it in a deep and rough lip lock. Deep, glowing claw marks set proudly in his back, no longer bleeding, but now burning with the mingling of soap and water. Since the detective's lanky frame was always cursed with a gaunt pale pallor, the patterns of blue-green bruises trailing up his ribs could not be more obvious. Knowing he had no one but himself to blame for the repeating contact the toe-capped shoe made with his keeling stomach, surprisingly did not help the pain.
Tinsley sank into the water, his long wounded thighs hanging over either side of the tub, littered with contusions from gripping finger tips. Of course his limbs were too long for the chipped enamel-washed tub, but at least he could rest his aching back flush against the bottom, his head dipping below the water with his sharp nose barely breaking the surface tension. He held his breath and clenched his eyes shut, the burning in his lungs quickly spreading but he rattling in his brain demanding he stay under a little longer.
However, the coherent knocking on his bathroom door pulled him from the water, the suds dripping from the mess of sandy locks matted to his large forehead. Tinsley groaned and winced as he wiped the droplets from his sore eyes.
"Go away, I'm fine and no I don't want to talk" The detective sighed.
"Come on, Tinman you've been in there for hours. I was just making sure you hadn't melted" The deep voice of Ricky Goldsworth grunted on the other side of the door.
"I said I'm fine, just go back to bed" Tinsley spoke, his voice strained and croaking.
Tinsley hadn't taken note of the time before clambering into the tub, he just knew it was late and he needed to be alone with his aching brain. He had left Goldsworth in his crumpled white, though quite dramatically stained, bedsheets, not even bothering to wonder if he was asleep or simply feigning the occasional snore.
When the detective had staggered home from his, quite frankly over dramatic day, the last thing he was expecting to see when he stumbled through the door was Ricky Goldsworth, lounging in his favourite armchair having already made his assault on his decanter. Though looking back on it, maybe it was the first he expected.
He'd been sat in the dark, twirling the crystal tumbler between his hands for some hours, awaiting Tinsley's return. TInsley had sighed at the sight at first, knowing only too well that there were only two things that would have brought the killer to his living room; sex or murder. Obviously, in truth, he hoped for the former, a hope which was euphorically granted.
The two unconventional companions had already been in agreement that the detective would protect the killer, doing what he had to do to keep him out of prison and in return, Ricky would let him live another day. Which was fine. For a while at least. Since the detective's sanity had already been cracked by his lengthy 8 years on the force and all the things he'd seen, all the people he'd met, this arrangement quickly grew into an arousing game of hunter and hunted, predator and prey. For once, Tinsley enjoyed feeling so vulnerable.
It all stemmed from that one night, Cecil came home to a similar sight to this evening and without another word or inclination, Goldsworth strided up to the taller gentleman and gripped his collar tightly, bringing his face closer to his. In the moment, Tinsley had feared for his life and was half expecting to be thrown across the room and assaulted, this expectation only making the proceeding events all the more surprising.
Goldsworth saw the panic flicker across the detective's hollow brown eyes and growled, partially out of some kind of immovable frustration and partially out of pleasure. The following words spilled from his lips in a hasty fashion,
"Okay detective, I've had enough of this. Don't disturb what I'm about to do and for the love of God, do NOT dwell on it. Just shut up and let me do as a please. Don't even reply, just give a simple nod so I know you understand"
Tinsley, still fearing for his life, had never nodded his head faster, and Ricky, in turn, had never kissed someone harder.
Several hours of clashing teeth, battling tongues, the grabbing of thighs, chins, cheeks, sheets, hair later, and the two men were tangled in the detective's bed sheets and panting. Cecil Tinsley is cursed to eternally remember the way Goldsworth held his hand, rubbing it affectionately with the soft pad of his thumb while at the same time destroying him like nothing ever could, whispering filth into his ear and grazing his teeth over the lavender skin on the detective's neck.
That night was around three and a half months ago, safe to announce at this point this became their new arrangement. Tinsley would still protect the killer, and Goldsworth would feed him information, yet the detective found some solace in the fact that he knew Ricky wouldn't want any harm to befall his precious little boy toy, therefore feeling somewhat safer in the dangerous man's presence. So when the killer presented himself in his armchair that evening, perhaps he wasn't all that surprised.
"Cecil come on," Ricky pouted. "If you don't let me in how am i supposed to help you"
"You don't want to help me Goldsworth you never have, I'm just cleaning myself up, i can manage on my own"
Before the detective had the opportunity to object further, the bathroom door swung open to reveal a dishevelled Ricky Goldsworth, dressed only in one of Cecil's old hockey shirts and a pair of boxers, his hair untidy and yawning.
The detective groaned at the sight of him.
"You couldn't just wait five minutes?" He sighed, though he couldn't control the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
In response, the killer simply feigned a pout and dropped to the floor beside the bath, his scuffed knees sinking into the sodden bathmat. He rested his arms on the edge of the tub and rested his head on them, offering his dark curls to the detective. Tinsley sighed and lifted a hand to his companions hair, running his wet fingers through his dry locks, massaging his scalp with his fingertips.
Ricky moved his hand into the bathwater, brushing his hand against the detective's arm, tracing the veins beneath his faded skin eventually reaching the scabs on his newly calloused knuckles. Cecil turned his palm and wrapped his long fingers around the killer's hand, squeezing it gently beneath the chilled water.
"You'll get cold, detective" Goldsworth sighed, lifting his head and resting his chin on the side of the bath. He looked up at Tinsley, his eyes, though dark and dusky in colour, could not be brighter and more full of mystery and mischief.
The detective had often wondered what Ricky's intentions were. He'd always known he had become a particular favourite of the killer's though he could never be certain why. Perhaps it was because he'd never been one to ask questions when Goldsworth had come to him needing something, or it may be the fact he reminds him of somebody he once admired and can't bring himself to push away, like a face ever present in the steamed windows of his mind. Or maybe. Just maybe, as ridiculous as it sounded, it could perhaps be possible such a monster could still be capable of the fleeting swelling of the heart, known to most as'love'.
Naturally, the detective, who was logical and analytical and downright cold at times, refused to let the thought permeate his thoughts further for the risk of clouding his memories of the killer with a sickening, stomach churning affection. They were not lovers. They were not friends. They were not even casual acquaintances. The only thing holding them to one another was business. However different they were, however much their conflict of interest stuffed the air with tension, it was always somehow silently agreed upon that as much as they wanted to know the other, swallowing their own choking desires was their best hope for survival. Even if it transpired that certain explosions of sentimentality and flooding episodes of heartsickness became an even more common occurrence deep within themselves, nothing was to be done about it. After all, neither could ever really understand what was at stake here. For themselves and for one another.
"What are you thinking of Cecil?" the killer chirped, "I've told you, you'll give yourself an aneurysm one day."
Ricky looked solemn for a moment. As if he could read the detective's thoughts, Tinsley watched the sombre flickers in his eyes as they twitched into a rich amber fire. Tinsley had seen that sight one too many times, and every time he couldn't begin to describe the urgent need to press soft kisses to his furrowed brow, reach his large hands around his neck as if to hold him down to earth while soft relentless confessions and reassurances trip from his blue lips. He was forlorn with it. How he hated that look. That expression he wore, it didn't matter if it was deceptive or deceitful, it still stung the innermost corners of the detective's soul. It was so soft, so hurt, so god-damn human it made everything else swirl into a blurry mix of light and colour.
Cecil allowed himself to forget all that for just a moment and leaned down, his lips hugging the curvature of Ricky's temple. He retracted as quickly as it had happened, a small passive smile dressing his expression.
"You don't want to know what goes on in here" Tinsley chuckled, tapping a dripping finger to his nose. "Come on, get out of the way, I want to get out now"
Ricky quaintly nodded and stood up, his hand finally feeling the cold once Tinsley had let him go. The criminal plucked the towel from the back of the door and held it open for the detective to step into. There was a heavy rushing sound as Tinsley stood from the bath, his weak wrists supporting his weight as his pulled himself up. He felt his eyes roll, stepping out of the tub and allowing Ricky to wrap the coarse, white cotton around his shoulders, using the towel to pull the detective down to his level.
Intentions still as unclear as ever, Ricky locked eyes with Cecil, looking between them as if unable to settle on one eye alone. The sombre look on his face hadn't faultered, his eyes swamped with concern and curiosity and care, but Tinsley wasn't falling for it. The killer simply pulled the detective down to his lips, kissing him softly as if to beg for Cecil to trust him. He stood on the tips of his toes and kissed the top of his head through the mess of wet, shaggy blonde curls.
"Get yourself dry, Tins." He offered gruffly and gave a small squeeze to his hand before turning to leave the room.
Tinsley nodded sheepishly and began to gently pat down the droplets running across his crippled body. The distraction of the mundane task made it easier for the detective to ignore about the rustling of clothes and sheets and eventually the slamming of his front door outside the bathroom. He knew already that when he opened that door, his room would be bare, the criminal would be gone, and he would leave a dark emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. The way it was supposed to be.