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“I’m warning you,” Carl said, eyeing the double bed with considerable misgivings, “you’d better keep your hands to yourself.”
Assad grinned at him in a way Carl didn’t find at all reassuring. Not that he expected Assad to try and do anything untoward: Assad certainly wasn’t that kind of guy. Carl would trust him with his life – hell, Carl had trusted Assad with his life. More than once, even, and he’d never regretted it, had he?
Somehow, this felt a little bit different though. All very well to act tough in front of the receptionist: Carl had been able to tell that she hadn’t liked having to be the bearer of bad news, and so he had wanted to reassure her that it was fine: he and Assad could share. It wasn’t a problem.
Clearly, Assad’s general niceness had rubbed off on him, and now look what had happened.
“Carl?” Assad asked. He was smiling now, rather than grinning. He also looked a little bit concerned. “This is fine, isn’t it? You said it was fine.”
Don’t use my own words against me, Carl thought. What he said instead was, “Of course it’s fine. What else were we supposed to do: sleep on a bench in the park or something?”
“We might have found another hotel,” Assad said.
Carl scoffed. “At this time of night? No, thank you.” He should probably get on with things. Get undressed, take a shower. Hell, he might already be asleep by the time Assad came to bed. That really would be fine, wouldn’t it? He could sleep right through the whole thing. “I’m showering first. If that’s all right with you.”
“Yes. Of course.” Assad was back to looking like there was nothing whatsoever in the world to concern him.
Carl nodded. He hadn’t really asked, but as long as Assad agreed, there was no harm in pretending.
A nice hot shower it was, and then straight off to dreamland. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?
Naturally, it didn’t turn out to be that easy. Carl blamed the bed. It wasn’t like his bed at home. And sure, that made sense, given that he wasn’t at home, but it was still annoying. You’d think a hotel would be able to provide guests with comfortable beds that felt like home even if they weren’t.
Assad was taking his shower. He’d already taken off most of his clothes when Carl had exited the bathroom. Not all of them, of course. But Carl had an imagination, and listening to the sound of the water running down the drain, his brains presented him with a pretty realistic image of what Assad might look like naked. Carl suspected that to Assad, showers were something to be enjoyed. To Carl, they were just something you did to get clean. Part of life.
Assad would of course have immediately spotted the little bottle of shower gel the hotel had provided. Carl had considered putting it in his pocket – such things were included in the price of the room after all, never mind that the department was paying. But then he had remembered Assad, and so he had left it, feeling very virtuous and quite pleased with himself. Also, now that he thought about it, rather silly. It was just some shower gel, after all.
“Carl?” Assad had come out of the bathroom wearing a towel. “You’re still awake.”
Carl wondered if he really was so predictable. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
Assad shrugged. Carl felt a little smug. There really hadn’t been a good answer to his question, and Assad knew it. “We had quite a day.”
“Eh. Business as usual,” Carl said. “At least neither of us ended up in the hospital this time.”
“Yeah. That’s always good,” Assad said. He walked to the bed, which made sense, given that there was only one, and they were going to share it.
Carl still felt oddly flustered, almost nervous. Almost like the way he had the first time he and Vigga had – but this wasn’t like that at all. He and Assad, they weren’t anything like he and Vigga, and thank God for that. Carl didn’t think he could have handled that kind of drama.
Assad was a colleague. That was fine. Carl could handle colleagues. He simply didn’t especially want to see them naked. That was normal, wasn’t it? Assad probably hadn’t especially wanted to see Carl naked, either, but he hadn’t made any fuss about it. Carl should follow Assad’s example. (Now there was an unexpected thought.)
“All right then, here I come,” Assad said.
Carl wanted to roll his eyes and tell him not to make such a production out of the whole thing, but Assad was pretty quick about it after all, and once he and Carl were in the same bed, it didn’t seem worth the bother.
“See? Plenty big enough for two,” Assad said.
Carl thought that was a bit much: the bed wasn’t that big. Carl was very much aware of Assad’s presence. Even when he closed his eyes, he couldn’t pretend that he was alone. He heard Assad’s breathing, and he smelled what was probably the hotel’s shower gel. It smelled pretty nice. Assad had no doubt used plenty of it.
“Sorry.” Assad lowered his voice. “Are you already asleep?”
“If I were, you would have just woken me up again, wouldn’t you?” Carl snapped. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. He wanted to fall asleep. To stop thinking about Assad in the shower, or Assad being so very close to him right now. All Carl had to do was reach out and then – and then what? he asked himself. What did he think would happen next?
“If you were really asleep, I wouldn’t have woken you up as easy as that,” Assad said. “Relax, Carl. Count sheep. That always helps me when I can’t sleep.”
Carl somehow doubted that. “I don’t want to count sheep.” Great, now he sounded like Jesper in a sulk.
Assad chuckled. “All right. Then don’t count sheep. Is there anything you want to talk to me about? You know you can, right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Assad couldn’t possibly know what Carl had been thinking about just now, could he? Assad was a fine detective, a fine colleague, but he wasn’t clairvoyant or psychic or something.
“Nothing, Carl.” Assad sighed. “Forget I mentioned it. Let’s just go to sleep.”
“I’m trying,” Carl said.
“All right. I’m sure you’ll get there.” Assad yawned. Carl felt obscurely offended. “Good night, Carl. Sweet dreams.”
“Yes, fine, good night,” Carl said. He was beginning to feel flustered again.
Assad’s breathing was already evening out.
Carl half hoped Assad would start snoring, so that Carl would have an excuse to wake him up, but Assad seemed to be a very quiet, very peaceful sleeper. He stuck to his side of the bed almost as if even asleep, he knew to keep his distance from Carl. Which was exactly what he wanted, Carl reminded himself. The last thing Carl wanted was to wake up tomorrow morning with Assad all over him.
Some people did that, Carl knew. They cuddled other people while they were asleep. Somehow, it had been easy to picture Assad being one of them.
“You’re still awake?” Assad sounded half asleep himself.
Carl almost asked if he had woken up Assad somehow, but he knew that was impossible. Carl had nothing to feel guilty about. Thinking about a person didn’t wake them up. That wasn’t how it worked. “It’s the bed,” he said. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“Well, at least it’s not the company.” Assad chuckled.
Carl had no idea how to respond to that. “You didn’t seem to be having any trouble.”
“Eh. I’ve slept in worse places,” Assad said. “It’s a gift. Anything I can do to help?”
“Sure, why don’t you go and make me some of your godawful coffee? That should help.” Carl sniffed. He did appreciate Assad always being ready and willing to help – well, he appreciated it some of the time, at least. When they were working, for example, and Carl didn’t feel like handling a tricky, finicky witness himself.
“I was thinking of something else.”
Carl’s brains insisted on presenting him with a vivid fantasy of that something else. It was that damn shower gel, Carl thought. Any time he smelled it, he pictured Assad naked, and any time he pictured Assad naked, naturally, he thought of sex. To Assad, sex was probably yet another fun thing to do – which Carl supposed was fair enough. Sex was meant to be fun, after all. Even Carl enjoyed sex. And sex with Assad would be – Carl swallowed. He definitely had to get his mind out of the gutter. “What?”
“Hot milk? Or maybe tea with some honey? I could ask room service,” Assad said.
Carl felt slightly ill at the idea.
“Carl?”
“No,” Carl said. “It’s fine. A lot on my mind, that’s all.” Great. Now Assad was going to do that whole spiel again about how Carl could talk to him about anything, and Carl would feel a bit bad about turning him down, because talking about things never helped. Well, unless it was a confession, in which case it helped some people, but not generally speaking the person doing the talking.
“You’re not cold, are you?” Assad asked. “These blankets aren’t very thick.”
Carl imagined agreeing. Would Assad offer to cuddle? Carl thought Assad probably would. “I’m not cold. Or warm,” he added. He didn’t want to lie to Assad.
“You warned me to keep my hands to myself,” Assad said. “I don’t want to overstep.”
“What about you?” Carl said, a little desperately. “Don’t you want me to keep my hands to myself?”
“Well.” Assad hesitated. “I would never want you to do something you’re not comfortable with, Carl.”
“Liar.”
Assad laughed softly. Carl wondered why he suddenly thought that was a sexy sound. “All right, that’s fair. But I’m serious about this, Carl. If you don’t want to, well, I don’t want to make things awkward between us. We’re a good team.”
“Who said anything about awkward?” Carl said, even though he suspected it would be. Sooner or later, it would be. Maybe not immediately, because Carl would try very hard to make things work, but whether that would be enough … “Let’s just – I’m fine with you not keeping your hands to yourself. There.” Carl felt rather pleased with himself for having gotten that out.
“Oh,” Assad said. Carl expected him to go on and say something more, but Assad didn’t.
Carl lowered his voice. “Assad. Have you fallen asleep again?”
“No, I – was that a joke? Are you smiling?” Assad definitely was.
“I’m not smiling. I’m beginning to feel a little cold though.”
“If you came a little closer, I could warm you up,” Assad said.
“Me? Why don’t you come a little - ” Carl started, when Assad did.
“Better?”
“Eh,” Carl said. He was beginning to feel decidedly warm. And not the least bit sleepy anymore. Which might come back to bite him in the ass tomorrow, but then, what else had God invented coffee for if not to help a hard-working policeman get through the day?