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Yuan Hong had always considered himself a reasonable man. He believed in evidence, in the importance of distinguishing between what had happened and what might have happened, and in the fundamental uselessness of allowing one's imagination to invent disasters that had already been successfully prevented. He had built an entire career upon that philosophy, and although Zhao Shaoshang had spent the better part of their acquaintance challenging its foundations, Yuan Hong remained convinced that a sufficiently disciplined mind could separate emotion from fact, fear from reality, and personal attachment from professional responsibility.
Unfortunately, at two seventeen in the morning, sitting beside his own bed and watching Zhao Shaoshang breathe, Yuan Hong discovered that his sufficiently disciplined mind was a traitor.
The facts were simple. Zhao Shaoshang had been injured during an investigation. The injury consisted of a shallow knife wound along his left side, three stitches, a considerable amount of bruising, and a sprained wrist that the doctor had described as inconvenient rather than serious. He had lost relatively little blood, had suffered no damage to his internal organs, and had spent approximately forty minutes complaining about the quality of the hospital's bandages before being discharged with instructions to rest. By every reasonable measure, the outcome had been excellent. The criminal had been arrested, the stolen documents recovered, and the fourth division had successfully concluded an investigation that had occupied them for almost three weeks.
Furthermore, Zhao Shaoshang was currently asleep in Yuan Hong's bed.
This last fact should not have been relevant to the professional assessment of the situation. Yuan Hong nevertheless found it extraordinarily difficult to think about anything else.
Shaoshang had commandeered the bed approximately four hours earlier, after informing Yuan Hong that the journey to the Zhao residence would be intolerably exhausting for a man in his delicate condition. This declaration had been made while standing perfectly upright, arguing with Yang Dezhi about the proper handling of evidence, and attempting to remove his own bandage because the knot offended his aesthetic sensibilities. Yuan Hong had pointed out that the Zhao residence possessed several comfortable bedrooms and an entire household of servants qualified to attend to an injured young master. Shaoshang had responded that none of those bedrooms belonged to Yuan Hong, none of those servants were Yuan Hong, and that if the captain wished to abandon a wounded civilian after recklessly involving him in a dangerous investigation, he was welcome to explain his decision to Minister Zhao personally.
Yuan Hong had brought him home.
It had been the most efficient solution.
He repeated this conclusion now, looking at the pale face resting against his pillow, and experienced a brief, entirely unreasonable surge of happiness.
Shaoshang was here.
Not in a hospital bed, not behind a closed door where Yuan Hong would have to wait for a doctor to emerge with news he could not control, not somewhere beyond his reach with blood soaking through his clothes and pain making his voice tremble. He was here, curled beneath Yuan Hong's blankets, his hair spread across the pillow in a dark, untidy cloud, his uninjured hand resting beside his cheek. He had complained that the mattress was too firm, the blanket too plain, the room too cold, and the captain's complete lack of decorative cushions an offense against civilization. Then he had fallen asleep before Yuan Hong could finish adjusting the lamp.
He looked younger when he slept. Not childish, precisely; Shaoshang possessed a particular sort of dignity that survived even his most ridiculous complaints, and Yuan Hong had long since learned that mistaking theatrical indignation for actual helplessness was an excellent way to lose an argument. But sleep softened the alert intelligence in his expression, erased the small line that appeared between his eyebrows whenever he was thinking too quickly, and loosened the determined set of his mouth. For once, he was not watching the world for something interesting, unjust, or personally offensive. He was simply resting.
And Yuan Hong had been permitted to witness it.
The happiness lasted approximately eleven seconds.
Then he remembered the knife.
It was remarkable, really, how little effort memory required when it had something sufficiently unpleasant to offer. Yuan Hong had spent the evening reconstructing the incident with professional precision, identifying the criminal's position, the available exits, the angle of the attack, and the sequence of decisions that had resulted in Shaoshang being injured. He knew exactly what had happened. He also knew exactly what he should have done differently, which was an altogether more exhausting kind of knowledge.
He should have noticed the second man behind the storage shelves. He should have insisted that Shaoshang remain outside. He should have anticipated that the suspect, cornered and desperate, might reach for the knife concealed beneath his coat. Most importantly, he should never have allowed himself to become distracted by the discovery of the documents when the person standing beside him had no formal training in defending himself against an armed attacker.
Except Shaoshang had noticed the second man.
Shaoshang had shouted the warning.
And when Yuan Hong turned, the knife had already been moving toward him.
He remembered a sharp impact against his shoulder, the unmistakable sound of someone stumbling, and Shaoshang's furious voice demanding that he stop standing there like an idiot and arrest the bastard.
Only afterward had Yuan Hong seen the blood.
It had been a small amount. Objectively speaking, it had been a small amount. Yet for one terrible moment the entire world had contracted around the dark stain spreading across Shaoshang's expensive silk, and Yuan Hong had forgotten how to breathe.
He looked at the bandage visible beneath the loose collar of Shaoshang's borrowed nightshirt.
His own nightshirt.
Another detail that should not have mattered.
He had given it to Shaoshang because the young master's clothes were bloodstained and the spare garments kept at the station were unsuitable. There was no deeper significance in the sight of Shaoshang wearing something that belonged to him, no reason for Yuan Hong's chest to tighten at the way the fabric slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the graceful line of his collarbone. There was certainly no reason to feel a possessive, almost embarrassingly tender satisfaction at the knowledge that Shaoshang had chosen his bed rather than any of the other rooms in the house.
Yuan Hong reached forward and adjusted the blanket.
Shaoshang made a small sound in his sleep, turned his face toward the warmth of Yuan Hong's hand, and settled again.
The captain froze.
For several seconds, he remained perfectly motionless, his fingers hovering above the pillow, because the young master had moved closer without waking and Yuan Hong had suddenly become incapable of determining whether withdrawing his hand would disturb him.
This was absurd.
He had commanded armed officers under fire. He had interrogated murderers, faced his father's displeasure, and walked into situations where a single mistake might have cost him his life. He should have been able to move his hand away from a sleeping man's face without requiring a detailed tactical assessment.
Instead, he brushed a stray lock of hair from Shaoshang's forehead.
Shaoshang sighed.
Yuan Hong's heart performed an undignified maneuver somewhere behind his ribs.
Then guilt returned, because apparently his mind had decided that happiness was permissible only when immediately followed by punishment.
What right did he have to enjoy this?
Shaoshang was injured. Shaoshang was sleeping in his bed because he had been hurt while helping Yuan Hong investigate a case. The fact that Yuan Hong liked having him there did not make the circumstances less reprehensible. If anything, it made his satisfaction selfish. A better man would have preferred Shaoshang safe in his own home, surrounded by family, untouched by the dangers that accompanied Yuan Hong's profession.
A better man would not have felt disappointed at the thought of him leaving in the morning.
Yuan Hong closed his eyes.
There were moments when he sincerely wished Zhao Shaoshang had never walked into his life. Not because the young master was irritating, although he was, or because he was troublesome, although that description barely approached the scale of the problem, but because Yuan Hong had once possessed a perfectly adequate understanding of himself. He had known what he wanted, what he feared, what he could afford to lose. His world had been organized around duties and responsibilities, with enough distance between himself and everyone else to ensure that any unexpected loss would remain survivable.
Then Shaoshang had arrived, carrying an expensive fan, an unreasonable number of opinions, and the apparently unshakable conviction that Yuan Hong's solitude was a problem requiring immediate correction.
And now Yuan Hong was sitting beside his bed at two in the morning, feeling grateful that someone had bled on his behalf and ashamed of that gratitude in the same breath.
He opened his eyes.
Shaoshang was watching him.
For one extraordinary instant, Yuan Hong experienced the unmistakable terror of a man caught committing an act for which no criminal statute existed but which nevertheless seemed capable of destroying his reputation.
"You're staring," Shaoshang murmured.
"I was checking your condition."
"For how long?"
"That is irrelevant."
Shaoshang blinked slowly, his expression still softened by sleep, and glanced toward the clock. His gaze returned to Yuan Hong's face, traveled over the untouched tea on the bedside table, the straightness of his shoulders, and the rigid position of his hands upon his knees. Something knowing and distinctly dangerous appeared in his eyes.
"You're wide awake."
"I am aware."
"Yuan Hong."
"Shaoshang."
"Have you slept at all?"
Yuan Hong considered lying. Unfortunately, Shaoshang possessed an irritating talent for recognizing dishonesty, particularly when it concerned the captain's health, and there was little chance of convincing him that a man sitting fully dressed beside the bed at two in the morning had been enjoying a restful night's sleep.
"I was not tired."
Shaoshang stared at him.
Then he sighed with such profound disappointment that Yuan Hong briefly wondered whether he had committed a considerably more serious offense than failing to rest.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Thinking."
"I frequently do."
"Not like that." Shaoshang pushed himself upright, winced when the movement pulled at his stitches, and immediately found Yuan Hong leaning forward to support him. His expression softened for half a heartbeat before turning accusing again. "That. Exactly that. You look as though someone has sentenced you to execution because I have three stitches."
"You were stabbed."
"I was scratched by a knife wielded by an idiot with poor coordination."
"You were bleeding."
"An unfortunate characteristic of being human. I have complained about it before."
"Shaoshang."
"Yuan Hong." He leaned closer, studying him with the merciless attention he usually reserved for suspicious witnesses. "How many times have you imagined me dying tonight?"
Yuan Hong said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Shaoshang's expression changed.
Not dramatically. He did not gasp or begin one of his theatrical speeches about the unreasonable behavior of policemen. Instead, his gaze moved briefly toward Yuan Hong's hands, then returned to his face, and something in his eyes grew quiet.
"Oh," he said.
Yuan Hong disliked that particular sound. Shaoshang used it whenever he understood something Yuan Hong had been attempting, usually unsuccessfully, to conceal.
"It was not your fault," Shaoshang said.
"I should have—"
"No."
"I failed to anticipate—"
"No."
"If I had positioned myself differently—"
"Then perhaps the knife would have gone into your chest instead of grazing my side." Shaoshang's voice remained calm, which made the words considerably harder to dismiss. "I saw him, Yuan Hong. I made a decision. You do not get to take that decision away from me simply because you dislike the consequences."
Yuan Hong looked at him.
Shaoshang held his gaze, stubborn and impossibly dear, with his hair falling into his eyes and his borrowed nightshirt slipping off one shoulder.
"I know you want to protect me," he continued, more softly. "I know you would prefer to lock me somewhere comfortable and feed me expensive pastries until every criminal in the capital has been arrested. But I am not a porcelain vase, and I am certainly not one of your officers. You cannot order me to stop caring whether you live or die."
Yuan Hong felt something tighten painfully in his throat.
"I do not want you hurt."
"And I do not want you hurt. How inconvenient for both of us."
"Shaoshang—"
"Enough. I have reached a verdict."
Before Yuan Hong could ask what verdict he meant, Shaoshang caught his wrist with his uninjured hand and pulled.
Under ordinary circumstances, this would have accomplished very little. Yuan Hong was taller, heavier, and considerably stronger, and Shaoshang was currently injured. Unfortunately, the captain's first instinct was to follow the movement rather than risk pulling against the young master's stitches, and that single moment of cooperation was all Shaoshang required.
Yuan Hong found himself sitting on the mattress.
"Lie down," Shaoshang ordered.
"This is unnecessary."
"Captain Yuan, are you refusing to cooperate with the injured party?"
"I am attempting to avoid aggravating your wound."
"Then stop arguing. You're exhausting me."
Yuan Hong lay down.
It was, he told himself, the most practical response.
Shaoshang immediately shifted closer, arranged himself against Yuan Hong's uninjured side, and settled his head upon the captain's chest with the proprietary satisfaction of a man who had finally acquired a particularly desirable piece of furniture. His hand rested over Yuan Hong's stomach. One knee slid between Yuan Hong's legs, carefully avoiding pressure against his injured side, and the blanket followed them into an untidy heap.
Yuan Hong stopped breathing.
"Shaoshang."
"Mm?"
"What are you doing?"
"Administering punishment."
"For what offense?"
"Excessive guilt, unreasonable self-sacrifice, criminal neglect of sleep, and attempting to make decisions on behalf of an innocent civilian." Shaoshang adjusted his cheek against Yuan Hong's chest. "Your sentence is to serve as my pillow until morning."
"That is not a recognized punishment."
"It is now. I am a consultant to the fourth division. I have authority."
"You do not."
"I have a bandage."
Yuan Hong considered this argument.
It was difficult to dispute.
Shaoshang gave a pleased little hum and settled more comfortably. His fingers curled into the fabric of Yuan Hong's shirt, holding him in place with a grip that could not possibly have restrained him and somehow made escape unthinkable.
"You're very warm," he murmured. "Much better than your actual pillows. Those are terrible, by the way. I shall buy you new ones."
"That will not be necessary."
"Neither was staying awake all night imagining my funeral, but here we are."
Yuan Hong's hand hovered uncertainly above Shaoshang's back.
He wanted to touch him. The realization arrived with such clarity that there was no point attempting to disguise it beneath professional concern. He wanted to put his arm around Shaoshang, feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and keep him close enough that the next terrible possibility his imagination invented could be disproved by the simple fact of his continued warmth.
"May I?" he asked quietly.
Shaoshang lifted his head.
For a moment, the teasing disappeared entirely.
Then he took Yuan Hong's hand and placed it against his own waist, safely above the bandage.
"You really are an idiot sometimes," he whispered, with so much affection that Yuan Hong could not bring himself to object.
The young master settled again, his cheek resting directly above Yuan Hong's heart. A moment later, he made a small, satisfied sound when the captain's arm tightened around him.
"Better," Shaoshang declared. "Now sleep."
Yuan Hong stared at the ceiling.
His bed had become considerably smaller. His left arm was trapped beneath a young master who had apparently mistaken him for an expensive bolster. His right hand rested against the curve of Shaoshang's waist, where the warmth of living skin seeped through thin cotton, and every time Shaoshang breathed, Yuan Hong felt the movement against his chest.
He was painfully aware of all of it.
He was also, rather unexpectedly, happy.
Not the brief, guilty happiness he had experienced earlier, when the sight of Shaoshang in his bed had seemed like something stolen from circumstances too terrible to justify enjoying it. This was quieter. It did not require him to forget the injury or pretend that the evening had been anything other than frightening. Shaoshang had been hurt. Yuan Hong had been afraid. Neither fact could be changed.
But Shaoshang was alive.
He was warm, stubborn, insufferably comfortable, and currently using Yuan Hong's heartbeat as a lullaby.
Perhaps that could be enough for one night.
"Yuan Hong?"
"Yes?"
"If you are still thinking about the knife, I shall bite you."
Yuan Hong lowered his gaze.
Shaoshang had not opened his eyes.
"That would hardly improve your condition."
"It would improve my mood."
"You should rest."
"I am trying. My pillow keeps worrying."
Yuan Hong felt the corners of his mouth move.
"Then your pillow apologizes."
"Accepted." Shaoshang paused. "For now."
A few minutes passed. The room grew quiet except for the clock and the distant sounds of the sleeping city. Shaoshang's breathing gradually deepened, and Yuan Hong found himself following its rhythm without consciously deciding to do so. His own shoulders relaxed. The tension that had settled beneath his ribs hours earlier began, very slowly, to loosen.
Then Shaoshang spoke again, so softly that Yuan Hong almost missed it.
"You can hold me tighter, you know."
Yuan Hong looked down.
"Your wound—"
"Is on the other side."
"I might disturb you."
"You already disturb me." Shaoshang's mouth curved against his shirt. "Constantly. You're terribly troublesome, Captain Yuan."
Yuan Hong tightened his arm.
Shaoshang sighed in contentment, slipped his hand beneath the edge of Yuan Hong's shirt, and rested his palm against the warmth of his stomach. The touch was innocent enough to defend before a court of law and intimate enough to make Yuan Hong grateful that the room was dark.
"Good," Shaoshang whispered. "Now you may consider yourself properly punished."
Yuan Hong closed his eyes.
He had endured punishments before. Military discipline, his father's anger, professional reprimands, wounds that had taken weeks to heal. He understood discomfort, deprivation, and the necessity of accepting consequences without complaint.
This was the first punishment in his life that made him wish the sentence were longer.
"Shaoshang?"
"Mm?"
"You are not to interfere with an armed suspect again."
A pause.
Then a sleepy, thoroughly unimpressed snort.
"And you are not to get stabbed while I am watching."
"That is hardly a reasonable agreement."
"Neither is yours."
Yuan Hong considered arguing.
Instead, he pressed his lips very briefly against Shaoshang's hair.
The young master went still.
For one dreadful second, Yuan Hong wondered whether he had made an unforgivable mistake.
Then Shaoshang tilted his head just enough to look at him, his eyes dark and bright with unmistakable amusement.
"Captain Yuan," he murmured, "was that an attempt to reduce your sentence through bribery?"
Yuan Hong remained silent.
Shaoshang smiled.
"Very well. One kiss is worth one hour."
"Shaoshang."
"Two, if you do it properly."
Yuan Hong looked at the young man curled against him, at the ridiculous triumph in his expression, at the tenderness he made no effort whatsoever to conceal. Then he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
Shaoshang closed his eyes.
"Three hours," he whispered generously.
Yuan Hong's arm tightened around him.
Outside, the city continued its restless existence, full of criminals who needed arresting, mysteries that demanded solving, and dangers neither of them could entirely prevent. Tomorrow there would be reports, arguments, an indignant Minister Zhao, and undoubtedly another lecture from Shaoshang about the unacceptable state of Yuan Hong's household furnishings.
But tonight there was only the weight of someone precious resting against his heart.
And Yuan Hong, who had spent so much of his life believing that love meant standing guard against every possible disaster, finally allowed himself to understand that sometimes it could mean something considerably simpler.
Sometimes it meant being trusted enough to become someone's pillow.
Sometimes it meant accepting that the person you wanted to protect had every intention of protecting you in return.
And sometimes, when a young master with three stitches and an outrageous sense of entitlement sentenced you to remain in bed until morning, the most responsible thing a police captain could do was obey.
Yuan Hong smiled into Shaoshang's hair.
For once, he had absolutely no intention of appealing the verdict.