Under A Rest Pt. 02

The good doctor threw her head over her shoulder and peered into her boudoir mirror, her long, auburn locks tumbling down her back. She examined her ample backside through her lavender silk chemise--the star of her lingerie collection. Its construction accentuated her silhouette, the hem falling right at her upper thighs, just barely indecent for public wear. It was simple, not too many frills, yet with an otherworldly slinkiness. Certain to raise an eyebrow, but not too outlandish a garment in which to lounge about the house alone.

In other words, perfect for the occasion.

Doctor Angelos sprayed a light lavender fragrance and re-tousled her hair, anxiously awaiting a doorbell. He had said tonight, hadn't he? She padded to her spacious living room and flopped down on her much-too-large sectional, flipping the television on and making herself comfortable. She'd just decided to tolerate some dry documentary about the Napoleonic Wars when the doorbell rang.

Her heart skipped a beat as she shot up to answer, which took her aback. Was she always this excited to see her subjects? Running through her mental checklist, she took a deep breath and peered through the door's peephole, indeed seeing in fisheye view a head of thick, wiry black hair, idly glancing down at his cell phone, sheets of rain falling behind him.

The doctor was well aware that this was a decidedly risky endeavor, as she often had the advantage of more trust, and more thorough, assured conditioning before making such bold moves. But the detective seemed genuinely and particularly receptive, and the potential payoff was massive. She took a breath and swung open the heavy oak door with aplomb.

"Hello, Detective. Come on in, get yourself out of that cold rain. Hope your evening is going fine."

Detective Berman considered himself a gentleman of decency and integrity. A lonesome bachelor who seldom felt strong attraction, and thus never quite shook that shyness around those to whom he felt strongly attracted, he preferred not to ogle. But something about this little sprite intrigued him viscerally in a way he hadn't felt in a very long time. Within a second, his eyes flicked from her head to her toes and back. Her hair, out of the stuffy constraints of its bun, caught his eye, spilling over her shoulders and down her back. He noted, too, how much less to his imagination her current garment left than the conservative ensemble she wore yesterday.

"Thanks, it is. And yours," he replied, clearing his throat. He removed his muddy, heavy-duty boots in her entryway, trying to keep his head down so as to avoid temptation. She took his coat. "There's nothing to worry about, as I've said. I'm just here to keep you posted and see if you can help us out with a few details. A couple of things we've uncovered."

"Of course, make yourself at home," she said, noticing his roving eye and relishing it, no matter how brief. But Doctor Angelos had to admit to herself that the detective's gaze was not the only one that had lingered. She herself took him in, noting that he looked somewhat better-rested, and dare she say more put-together than the previous evening. Hell, she'd even admit the man looked downright handsome. He'd groomed his emerging stubble into a short beard, put product in his hair, chosen his ensemble carefully...was he even wearing aftershave?

She grinned to herself. It'd been a while since she'd truly thrilled while doing in one of her subjects like this. Something about this one felt particularly special.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked. "Water, coffee, tea? I feel like something sweet, myself."

Something about this one almost made her feel bad for what she was about to do.

The detective cleared his throat, unable to help himself with the lady's back turned, eyeing her barely-covered behind as she sashayed to the kitchen. "Hm? Oh, none for me, thanks. Is this, um...is this a bad time?"

"A bad time? Not at all. Why do you ask?" she called from the kitchen.

"I always ask," he called back, slightly too quickly. "I mean, later in the evening is the most convenient time for me, but I'm usually intruding in some way when I drop by at this hour. So I try to show a little courtesy."

"That's sweet of you. You're a very considerate man," the doctor replied, exiting the kitchen to find the detective awkwardly standing still in the middle of her sizable living room. She snickered.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"I don't know, take a load off. You look a little funny just standing there. Make yourself at home," she said, gesturing at the couch.

"Oh. Thanks," he said, gingerly setting himself on the sofa. Of all the spots available, she parked herself next to him, her smooth, bare thigh pressing right against his pant leg. He stared straight at the television.

"I'm very interested in anything you might've found. I have all the time to help you, I'm by myself tonight. Hell, I thought you were the pizza man," she said breezily. "So, yeah. I'm all yours, Detective."

"Good," he said, absentmindedly rolling up his shirt sleeves. This lady really liked her rooms warm. "That you can help me, I mean. Hey, this about Napoleon?"

Doctor Angelos eyed his forearms and hands--sinewy, vascular, adorned with ample hair and a simple silver watch--then remembered to glance at the TV.

"Oh, yeah, looks like it. I just had it on to have something on."

"One of my favorite eras of history. Did you know Napoleon was tone deaf?"

"I've heard. I think I also heard that he sang all the time anyway. But I might've invented that."

"No, you're correct. Deserved exile just for that, honestly," he said, glancing anxiously at his watch. He'd come prepared tonight--at least, he'd tried to. A few cups of coffee had him plenty alert.

"Can you sing, Detective?"

"What?" he asked dumbly, taken off guard by such a question.

"Can you--"

"I heard, sorry, just. Uh, sort of. I can whistle. I guess I can carry a tune. But I'm not very good."

"I see," she said, grinning. "Oh, I love to sing, I find it very relaxing. I've always got a melody going in my head that I like to hum to myself. I find it self-soothing. Oddly...restful."

"I can...I can see why," he said, suddenly sensing a peculiar disturbance. "I'm sure you have a lovely singing voice. I mean, uh, you have a very mellow speaking voice, so I'm guessing that would translate."

"Why, thank you. I like to think most people can be taught to sing in some capacity. And the rest of them, well...we need someone to laugh at on karaoke night, don't we?" she said, biting into her cookie. She stopped, noticing the detective staring straight through her, glassy-eyed and unblinking. "Everything alright?"

"Me? Yeah, of course, sorry. Just had a few cups of coffee." He mentally scolded himself for his spaciness.

"A few cups? So late?" she asked, interrupting his self-flagellation.

"Duty calls."

"Well, I just hope that you're more adequately rested. Did you have a good night's rest?"

Detective Berman blinked, his mind and body suddenly tingling again.

"Detective?"

"Huh? Oh yes, yes," he said quickly. "Sorry, jeez. Uh, I got a pretty good night's sleep, contrary to how I might seem right now. Your little exercise even helped with that."

"Oh?"

"Well, I often struggle, lying awake and such. I'm, uh, not too good at the whole sleeping thing we're all supposed to do every night," he admitted. He paused, noticing what seemed to be a genuine look of understanding on the doctor's face as she nodded. "But laying in bed, breathing, relaxing each part of the body, that sort of thing. Seems obvious, but it's helpful."

"It really is conducive to sleep, I can attest. As you demonstrated yesterday," she said with a light laugh.

"Yeah, sorry again. I really don't know what came over me."

"It's really nothing out of the ordinary, no need to apologize. As I said yesterday, it's a very normal response when you've abused yourself by not getting enough rest. Now, what do you have for me?"

"Have...I, ah..." he murmured, his mind whirling a bit before settling. "...have this...this bra with me again, you see. Not because I'm a creep who likes carrying it around or anything, but because we've located its origins." Doctor Angelos chuckled.

"I must really be in the mood for sweets tonight," she said suddenly, finishing her cookie. "Ate this whole thing and I could go for the rest of the package! Usually I just take two bites and leave the rest for later. Oh, I'm sorry to interrupt, what was that about the lingerie?"

Warm, fuzzy TV static cut into the detective's thoughts. He had something to say, surely, but it was as though the words were all of a sudden snatched from his mouth.

"Um...right," he muttered, looking down at his lap. "Right, uh...the lingerie. W-we found out that it came from this little boutique down in the Botanical Park Mall. Some French place, La Minette was the name. Have you heard of it?"

"No, can't say I have. Terribly sorry," she said quietly, nibbling a stray cookie crumb from the tip of her index finger, allowing it to linger near her smooth, mauve lips. The detective felt his eyes drawn to them as his thoughts scattered. He swallowed with effort.

"Where do you get yours?" he mumbled, with none of his typical pointed precision. His eyes migrated south and now clearly came to rest on the shiny lilac nightgown worn by the woman beside him.

"I'm sorry?"

Detective Berman squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out all distracting stimuli.

"For the sake of elimination, Doctor. This is information we need to complete the picture. From where do you typically purchase your lingerie?"

"Oh. Well, I get mine from Candy Hearts or Lacey's. Sometimes Nordstrom will have a sale on something decent. Or indecent, depending on what I want. I could really take or leave the rest."

"...Uh-huh," he said, furrowing his brow. Despite his initial caffeine buzz, he was beginning to feel that dreaded limp, somnolent feeling again, now coupled with the inevitably rising tides of arousal at her mere suggestion of indecency. He did have other questions, but felt a sneaking suspicion that it was time to leave. Much as it hurt his pride, he realized he simply lacked the mettle. This was beginning to feel like less of an investigative experiment and more like playing with fire.

"Are you alright, Detective? You seem a little distracted tonight. You haven't got a fever, have you?" she said, gently placing the back of her hand against his forehead. He twitched at her sudden touch, his stomach doing flips. "You do feel a bit warm. Do you have chills? You know, nothing beats an illness like proper nutrition and rest. Lots and lots of rest."

"...Right. I'm fine, though. I think. I'm just...thinking," he said, fidgeting with his pant leg in an attempt to snap out of whatever bizarre fog had descended upon him. "Because it...it did appear to us that you, um, had an account at this boutique."

"Which boutique?"

"The one I just said."

"I can't remember the name," she lied.

"Uh...um...shit. La...La...Jesus, you're not the only one," he muttered, mentally scolding himself and sneaking a glance at the evidence bag. What on Earth was going on with him tonight? "Minette, it was. La Minette. Leave it to the French."

"And what of it?"

"I..." he trailed off, desperately flailing for his train of thought. "...we believe that you had an account there."

"I did?" she asked innocently.

"You did...or, uh, do, rather. In fact, they sell ones very similar to y-yours," he stammered, pointing at her slip.

"Ah, this one?" She stood up and twirled, modeling it for him within arm's reach.

"Precisely," he uttered. Certainly those glimpses he was getting of her bare buttocks were intentional.

"You like it?" she asked with a girlish grin. He gulped, his face growing hot as his heart raced in his chest. He'd had a few attempts at seduction come his way in his time solving crime, but nothing he couldn't shut down swiftly and professionally, and absolutely nothing where he felt so powerless, so feeble in its grasp. Usually unflappable, the detective now wore his fluster fully on his sleeve.

"Well, um. I-it's purple. Looks like a satin material. It's nice, I guess. As far as that stuff goes."

The doctor smirked.

"You love it," she commanded.

"I love it," he parroted. His eyes widened and he immediately recoiled, clamping his mouth shut.

"Glad you agree! You should see the rest of my collection. Why don't you come with me, we'll take a look."

This was now beyond playing with fire; this was a nightmare come to life. Detective Berman glanced away, raking a hand through his hair. He felt faint.

"Well I would--I-I mean, for the case--but, uh, i-it's getting late, I don't want to impose, I'll just see myself o--"

"But didn't you have more questions for me?" she asked innocently. "What about the rest of them? You've only been here a few minutes."

"...I, I, I did. I do. But I'll come back at a later time. A better time. Because now just seems like such a...bad time."

"What's so bad about it? I'd just like to answer the rest of your questions."

With great effort, Detective Berman hoisted himself up unsteadily, Doctor Angelos gazing right up at him with a winsome smile on her face, eyes sparkling. She placed a hand on his arm. By now his head was positively swimming.

"Th-the rest of my questions?" he repeated dully.

"Yes, that's what I said," she cooed with a small laugh. "I want to hear all the rest of them."

"Uh...I can j--"

"Have a seat, Detective." Immediately he descended back down onto the sofa, his increasing lack of control driving him mad. His mind and gut twisted in panic, his breathing now rapid and ragged, all of which he could only spectate. He could've sworn there was no grandfather clock in sight and yet still he could hear that dreaded thing commandeering his thoughts; ticking, tocking, ticking, tocking...

"You look anxious, you know," she said, voice dripping with maternal concern. "In fact, you've looked so very anxious ever since you walked in, and it looks like more than just coffee. Whatever is the matter?"

"Matter? Nothing. I'm fine."

"Relaaax," she said softly, drawing out the word. He shivered, his skin breaking out in goosebumps. "Breathe, just like I taught you."

Nearly hyperventilating, his breathing automatically began to slow upon her instruction.

"Look at me. Breathe. Good. Nothing to worry about. That's right, that's wonderful, just like we practiced. Relax. In...aaand out. Rest, now."

As she leaned in, her round, honeydew eyes seemed to occupy his entire field of vision, magnifying her speech. A sense of frisson crackled throughout his skin, his jaw slackening, the world surrounding him seeming to melt just as it did in that waiting room.

"Uh, didn't...aren'tcha...expecting someone?" he eked out, his words a deep, drowsy slur. She quirked a brow.

"Expecting? Who?"

"D-din'tcha order pizza? Pizza guy?"

"Oh, Detective!" she tittered, running a hand down his face, which now wore a delectable look of confused, barely-aware embarrassment. "You're precious. Maybe you do need to get some rest, mm? Rest for me. Rest deeply."

A warm, heavy sensation bloomed in his gut, hitting him like a wall. His muscles relaxed completely, welcoming the familiar looseness.

Distantly in Detective Berman's mind, it all clicked. Rest--that was the word she'd planted. Each time she said it, little by little he felt more and more of his energy drain, more of his thoughts scramble and slip away. He knew there had to be some sort of trigger word, but for the life of him he couldn't make the connection until just then.

It wasn't for lack of trying. The previous night he'd tried, really tried, to listen to his recording of their conversation. Surely if he did, he'd know what the hell happened, glean more information about her process. But it was so late, and he was so tired--at least, that's what he'd figured--that his efforts unfortunately proved fruitless.

He'd stumbled through his front door past midnight, having turned their interaction around in his head for hours. He'd felt so distant, somewhat entranced, but he'd easily waved it off as the sleep-deprived delirium that occasionally plagued him when he pushed his body's limits. But it became abundantly clear that she'd done some sort of handiwork when, upon donning earphones and pressing play at his desk at home, he'd woken up cheek-down in a puddle of his own drool an hour later, with very little memory to speak of the recording. He made another attempt later that night by playing it as he showered, only to be jolted out of his trance by needles of ice. He'd stood there blankly and contentedly leaning against the tile for so long that the hot water had run plumb out.

There was one more attempt made while laying in bed, although at that point even he'd predicted that to be a futile effort.

It had grown into a competition of sorts in which he was determined to beat that recording, make it through to its end, and if only he could listen to it one more time, that would be the time he could make it through and find something useful. But each and every time her voice snaked its way into his head, its words massaged his mind, loosened his body, slowed his thoughts, and the next thing he knew he was blearily opening his eyes. Each and every time his defeat was quicker, yet his desire to try again stronger--a vicious cycle of vexing relaxation.

And so it had gone, he realized as he awoke that morning, tangled in his earphone and charging cables--and with his hand down his boxers, at full mast thanks to that low, sultry voice of hers, which he...did have to admit aroused him to a certain degree.

He'd slept very peacefully, a welcome change of pace from his normal fitful attempts, but he could no longer stifle the creeping realization that not only was he getting nowhere with that recording, deep down he was beginning to not particularly mind. In fact, it was as though he wanted to go absolutely nowhere at all. Such a sensation was so foreign to him, yet so overwhelmingly euphoric, that he felt frustrated, disarmed by how difficult it was for him to fight, despite knowing and anticipating the outcome.

That was all well and truly aside from his budding infatuation with the wielder of that power, a pesky feeling that had reared its head for the first time in too many years. It took a mighty force to shake his concentration from an investigation, and this was one impossible to ignore. What truly turned his stomach was that as he began to feel her power, bizarre as it was, his morbid curiosity as to the methods behind her madness, and in turn his desire for absolutely nowhere, only grew.

Even as he felt the increasing heat of the sun to which he now flew so dangerously close.

Thus, in spite of every fiber of his better judgement, he'd found his legs marching him to her doorstep on that rainy Friday evening. With a bit too much cream in his hair. And a new tie. And the expensive aftershave his sister had given him for Christmas last year.

With no call for backup.

"Toooooo much coffee today, huh?" the doctor asked. She was curled up next to him now, much closer, lazily toying with a lock of his hair. He snapped back to reality, realizing only then that she'd been speaking to him amid his daydream.

"Mm? Oh, I, I...I try to come prepared," he mumbled.

"Operative word being try," she said, tone melodic, bordering on taunting. His face grew hotter at both her insinuation and the fact that he was close enough to feel her breath tickling his ear. "A few coffees can't undo years of mistreating the mind and body, Detective. Coffee just blocks up all the parts of your brain that tell you that you need to rest. It's a ruse. It doesn't eliminate the physiological need. All that tension, all that pent up frustration, all those sleepless nights, all deeply entrenched in your body. They don't just go away. They all catch up with you. You are always going to want to rest for me."