Title: Observe and Report
Request: Daryan/Klavier, rape recovery.
Warnings: Strong language.
Original Link: http://teagueful.livejournal.com/56374.html?thread=22628918#t22628918

Even if Daryan wasn’t a police officer, he’d notice.

Goddamn, it was impossible not to notice.

The glimmerous fop—Klavier hated that nickname, too, no matter how much he pretended it didn’t bother him—went around with that big stupid fake smile plastered on his face and assured everybody that he was fine, that things were okay, that they needed to treat this like any other case that would cross their desk.

What a joke. The lead singer of the Gavineers may as well have been the poster boy for Not Okay.

Fucking Kristoph.

(Daryan found himself holding back a snort when his inner monologue hit that point. How apt. And how ironic.)

Nobody else saw the dark circles under Klavier’s eyes covered with gobs and gobs of stage makeup. Or the bazillion tiny bizarre rituals Klavier went through to keep himself together. Or the muted, but oh-so-obvious-once-you-knew-him flashes of panic that would flit between Klavier’s eyes when the fangirls pressed too close.

Klavier couldn’t bear to be touched anymore, not by anybody. He’d try to grin and bear it, but Daryan knew that any moment, any stimulus could be the trigger to another no holds barred, full contact flackback to that awful night Klavier ended up on the wrong side of a crime scene.

(Being the stupid, stupid, stupid reckless idiot he was, he had tried to solve problems in the typical Daryan manner and attempted to “help” Klavier by plying him with alcohol. Daryan had ended up with a black eye and Klavier remembered nothing about what had transpired the next morning, not even after the raging hangover, but Daryan was almost glad that he alone knew the ringer wasn’t from some supposed phantom mystery suspect.)

Yet it was always “no, I don’t want to talk about it” or “stop asking already, Daryan, the trial ended ages ago” or “what’s your problem, Daryan?”

“Do you think I’m some kind of fragile flower that can’t handle myself? Are you obsessed with ‘fixing’ what’s wrong with me?” That particular outburst was punctuated by a diva fit that would have made every paparazzi cover had it been public, culminating with Klavier heaving his paperweight at Daryan. That bruise had been a little harder to explain, but Daryan always had something of a rough-and-tumble image, so all it ended up accomplishing was to feed the rumor mill.

Daryan was getting tired of Klavier’s bullshit. A year after the incident and the latter was still jumping at shadows and crashing on Daryan’s couch because he couldn’t stand to sleep alone. In some of his less clear-minded moments, Daryan half-contemplated assaulting the man himself so that Klavier could have something else to wangst over—and then the one reasonable part of Daryan that still worked would kick in and he’d think better of such a fucking stupid (argh, there it was again) plan.

Daryan was pulling another all-nighter in his office and had tossed back a few beers to take the edge off when Klavier came back in, hung his jacket on the back of his chair, and sat down in his desk but made no further move to do anything else.

“What, lock yourself out again?” Daryan asked, past the point of caring whether or not his words stung. “You still have a copy of my key, dontcha?”

“I—” Klavier began, staring at his hands. “I decided to go see that therapist after all.”

Well, la de fucking da, Daryan thought, but instead of speaking the sentiment out loud he took another swig of his beer.