Page 32 of Lamb to Slaughter

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“It’s starting to snow,” Lam said. It was over an hour later in the small morning hours. Lam was sitting up against this pile of pillows in bed, Conan’s head in his lap. His eyes had drifted to the far window, and he could see in the moonlight the beginning drifts of snow.

Conan groaned, turning his head further into Lam’s hand that was carding through his hair. “Thanks for not leaving me out in the snow.”

“Like a sad puppy in a cardboard box?” Lam joked, amused at the image. His gaze drifted down to Conan’s face, his eyes were big and dark.

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

They were both freshly re-showered, and Conan was re-stitched and bandaged with a heavy dose of lidocaine for the shoulder.

Lam’s fingers traced from his temple to his brows and down the bristly plane of his cheek. His unmarked cheek. He’d taken a lot of Lam’s knife tonight, but not like that. Not a strike.

Lam’s thoughts wandered further that direction, and his eyes drifted back to the window. He should already be asleep, but he was spooling the time out. They’d gotten back into bed again after the sheets had been changed, but Lam hadn’t wanted to lie down. Hadn’t wanted to sleep just yet. He’d been thinking of the morning, of the time when Conan would leave.

Now he was thinking, maybe…?

“If I wanted to…” Lam started slowly, turning the thought over in his head. The more he did though, the more he wanted it. It was interesting, this desire. Even after everything they’d done tonight to sate it, there was still undredged depths.

“Yes?” Conan prompted when he failed to continue.

Lam’s fingers traced the shape of Conan’s mouth, then jaw, and down to his neck. There was the tiniest of knicks there from earlier under the bridge. A pinprick really, but his fingers found the mark.

“If I wanted to, could I keep you?” Lam asked, putting this new desire on the table. He’d been more honest these last few hours than he’d been in collective years. It was like taking a full breath of air after being suffocated. He wanted more.

“I haven’t struck out?” Conan asked.

Lam could hear the smile in his voice. “No.”

Conan made a rumbling sound of pleasure. Then, “Do you like eggs?”

“Eggs?” Lam asked, confused at the non-sequitor.

“I make a mean egg scramble,” Conan said.

Oh. Breakfast. That warmed Lam all the way down.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Lam said, but there was a smile in his own voice too. He took another step forward. “Tomorrow we’ll have to get you new clothes, I ruined your jacket.”

“And my shirt,” Conan added.

Lam’s fingers drew a line across Conan’s throat, the place where he’d ended so many men’s lives. For once, he felt no desire for it. Instead, his thoughts were preoccupied with shopping, with the places he could take Conan, the things he could put him in.

“Yes,” Lam said softly, already beginning to compile a list.

“I can hear you thinking.” Conan said. His hand came up and caught Lam’s own, lifting it off his throat. A moment later it was turned and Conan kissed the backside of his hand.

There were those butterfly feelings again. Strange.

“Going to dress me up?” Conan asked. “Sounds serious.”

“It could be,” Lam admitted. “What do you think?”

Conan pushed up from his recline, and Lam turned to look at him. One of Conan’s hands came up and gently wrapped around Lam’s throat, pressing over the sore, bruised skin. His thumb rubbed over the tenderness.

“I think I’d like to see where this goes, and not just for the sake of a warm bed.” Conan’s face was serious. They’d known each other for just a few hours, but Lam felt like he could trust it.

“Then stay,” Lam said.

The fingers around his neck squeezed a little, just enough for a zip of pleasure to go down Lam's spine.

Then Conan was leaning in and kissing him, soft.

In the morning Conan made eggs, and it was the best breakfast Lam had eaten in years.