goodfellow | To Kill a Puck, Part 1 (for Thomas)

It had been a good day at Robin's car dealership. Just before closing, he'd talked a mother into buying a three-year-old sports car for her 16-year-old son; from the looks of him, he'd have it wrecked within the week and back for another - at which point he could recommend a nice safe SUV with all the bells and whistles that cost even more than the first one.

He was also expecting a visitor. Thomas Raith, who never failed to put him in a good mood. More than a good mood. What Thomas Raith put him in were orgasms that curled his toes for days. They'd only met two months ago, but he was already far more regular a sex partner than Robin had had in a very long time - but then, anyone who was more than a one night stand amounted to "regular" for Robin.

Everyone else had already gone home, except for a janitor who was sweeping the show room. Robin caught a glimpse of Thomas' lovely head of hair and met him just outside. "Can I interest you in... let's see, something fast, something powerful, something in white, perhaps?" he asked as soon as he opened the door to greet him.

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"Yup." Thomas ignored the previous comment and pulled into the parking garage next to his building, reaching into the back to grab a leather jacket and toss it in Robin's lap. "Put that on, if you can. A drunken, stumbling companion leaning on me won't raise any eyebrows, but a slashed and bloody shirt might. And...keep your comments to yourself until we make it to the elevator, okay?" Because he was sure Robin would have comments, even in his current state. He always did.

"Comments? What kind of comments?" Robin did at least manage to put on the jacket, though it was a touch big on him. Thomas at least had good taste in clothes. Leather wasn't really Robin's thing, but at least it was expensive.

"Any comments," Thomas growled, jumping out of the car and quickly coming around to open Robin's door and help him down out of the monstrous vehicle so he could tow him to the front door of his just-as-swanky-as-Robin's building.

"You're lucky I'm being slowly poisoned to death," Robin drawled. "I'm not a big fan of keeping my mouth shut under normal circumstances."

Though as they made their way into the building he really could be easily mistaken for a simpler tipsy-and-stumbling. Probably because the world was spinning so much.

Thomas kept the conversation brief and cordial with the doorman and the security guard, understandable with his company. He also kept it in the French accent that they all expected from him, tightening his grip on Robin and hurrying him to the elevator to stab impatiently at the button.

"Nice place, by the way," Robin said, slumping a little against Thomas. Narrowly missing pushing him into the wall of buttons. He'd much rather be in a bed than stopping on every floor.

"Not as nice as mine, but..."

Thomas eyerolled and didn't reply, though if he'd had a handkerchief or a sock or something handy he might have been hard-pressed not to shove it into the puck's mouth. He just did his best to keep Robin upright as the elevator climbed to the top floor, then led him to his front door, fumbling his keys back out of his pocket to unlock it.

"You don't have a housekeeper who's shy about nudity do you?" Robin asked. "Because if I'm going to be sleeping off near-death I would prefer to be as comfortable as possible. Silk sheets, I hope?"

"No and no," Thomas kicked the door closed behind them and headed straight for the bedroom. "Egyptian cotton." With ridiculously high thread counts.

"That'll do in a pinch." Robin was was already fumbling at his clothes when they got into the bedroom; he had every intention of getting into that bed naked.

Thomas didn't care what state of dress Robin wore to bed, as long as he got a better look at those slash marks. He caught the leather jacket as it slipped from Robin's arms, tossing it on top of the cluttered dresser. "I have a first aid kit," he suggested, though it was a bit more robust than some little tin box with a few band-aids and some iodine.

"Oh. Right." As Robin got his shirt off, he looked down at the marks as if he'd forgotten they were there. At least they weren't bleeding; they weren't very deep, after all.

He shoved down his pants.

"This wasn't how I was hoping to be introduced to your bed," he added morosely.

"That makes two of us," Thomas muttered, holding Robin up until he lost the rest of his clothes and then easing him down onto the bed before leaving him to get himself settled. He ducked into the adjoining bathroom and yanked open the cupboard under the sink, hauling out gauze, tape, peroxide, and a towel.

Robin settled comfortably into the bed. He pulled the sheet up to his waist - though it was because he was cold, not modest.

"I've always had a thing for nurses," he said when Thomas returned. Robin had a thing for everyone. "Will you wear one of the little hats for me?"

"Not for anything on earth," Thomas grumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed and setting the supplies near at hand as he started wiping away smears of dried blood with the dampened towel.

He worked in silence for a moment, and then asked in a low voice, "What do you need to get rid of the poison? Just rest?" Because if Robin needed something else, it would be convenient to know before he lost consciousness on him.

"Mmmmm," Robin agreed vaguely. "Magnificent puck constitution..."

He looked up at Thomas, eyes a little unfocused for a moment. "Of course, if you're hungry, I won't object if you want to blow me to sleep." After all, if anyone could get it up half-dead, it was Robin Goodfellow.

Of course, the proposition probably wasn't very convincing since Robin's head lolled to the side and he passed out before Thomas could even react.

Thomas sighed, his eyes flashing a lighter shade of grey at the suggestion even as he shook his head. "I think that'll have to wait," he told the unconscious puck, quickly finishing the job of dressing Robin's wounds and then getting away before his demon decided to see just how much it could draw from Robin in his current state.

Besides. He needed to make a phone call.

To Kill a Puck, Part 1 (for Thomas)

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