Dear fandom: someone cut off my supply of anime and manga right now. No, seriously, RIGHT NOW. Or, barring that, point me towards icons, because if I make them it'll just end in tears.

This is Pet Shop of Horrors fic. Orcot/Count D, because come on.

all sales are final
By Gale

SUMMARY: This is not Orcot’s best day ever, and this tea is too sweet. Spoilers for PSoH tankubon 1. Who would have thought something with bishonen on the cover and a purple binding would be this gory?

The damage was bad, but not as bad as it could have been. The property damage was almost incidental, and the cost in human lives – well, it could have been worse. That’s what Orcot keeps telling himself, anyway. The chief’s going on the news tonight and explaining that it was an eco-terrorist group, that it broke out some highly dangerous test animals. People will be startled and shocked, maybe even horrified, but they won’t question it too closely.

And Orcot’s in the back room of Count D’s pet shop, drinking tea that’s too sweet and stubbornly refusing any and all offers of cookies or biscuits.

“I’m fine,” he says, for what feels like the hundredth time in an hour. He puts his cup down. “We need to talk about what happened.”

”There is nothing to talk about, Detective Orcot,” D says, sipping at his own tea. “The problem has been handled – quite well, I must say, by your own officers. Few questions will be asked, and I believe the Haywards have learned a lesson from this, even if it was not quite the one they wished.”

”So, what,” Orcot asks, “you’re some kind of vigilante?”

The look D gives him – the half of his face that’s visible, anyway – makes Orcot flush and look away. He didn’t know someone’s expression could be so disdainful with so little exposed skin. “Yes, detective,” he says, “you’ve found me out. I use my grandfather’s pet shop as a front for vigilantism, through the cunning use of small animals.” He sets his tea down on the coffee table and offers his hands to Orcot. “Is this the part where you handcuff me and take me off to jail?”

Orcot bites his tongue and does not say what he’s thinking, mostly because it mainly consists of “shut up, you pompous asshole” or variations thereof. “It’s not as unreasonable question as you’re making it sound,” he finally says, careful to keep his voice level. “First Robin Hendrix is killed by an iguana *you* sold him—“

”Robin Hendrix committed suicide,” D says, putting his hands down. “We have already discussed this, detective.”

”—then the Haywards accidentally let loose an infestion of murderous bunny rabbits, and while we’re on the subject, what the *hell* kind of bunny rabbit looks like a child? Looks like *their* child?”

”A very rare one,” D says. He picks up his tea. “From a small island off the coast of Australia. It’s almost extinct now, I believe.”

Orcot speaks through clenched teeth. “You’re not giving me any answers here, D.”

”No, I’m not giving you the answers you *want*,” D snaps, almost sounding angry. Orcot shuts up. “I am not giving you neat, simple answers you can easily categorize, so you’re taking it out on me, when I have had nothing to do with either case beyond selling people pets. Which, Detective Orcot, I would like to remind you, *I do for a living*.” He sits up straight and takes a sip of tea, then adds, “I can tell you all of this again down at the station, though of course I will have to bring along my legal counsel.”

There is no reason on God’s green earth for Orcot to apologize. He’s just doing his job, after all, and every extra sense he’s developed as a cop is telling him something hinky is going on here. But the truth is, D *wasn’t* involved – there aren’t any signs of it, and more importantly, that’s not what Orcot’s getting from him. Maybe he’s hiding something, but it has nothing to do with what happened today or Robin Hendrix’s death.

“You’re right,” he says quietly, letting out a long breath. “I’m sorry for implying otherwise. It’s just – it’s been a long day.”

Something in D’s face softens. The part of it he can see, anyway. “They signed contracts, Detective Orcot,” he says, not unkindly. “We do not sell your garden variety parakeets and puppies and kittens here. We sell exotic pets. Most of them have special needs, and not all of them are entirely safe, I’ll admit. But everyone is warned at the time of purchase, and I can assure you, literally *thousands* of animals have been sold here with no ill harm whatsoever.” He shrugs a shoulder. “If I sell a man a puppy, and the man doesn’t take proper care of the puppy and develops rabies, only to later attack and kill the man, am I responsible? No.”

”But that’s a risk all puppies run,” Orcot says. “Not all iguanas kill people who look them in the eye.”

”Some do,” D says. “And I never said it was a completely accurate metaphor.” He puts his cup down, glances at Orcot’s. “Would you care for some more tea, detective?”

”I’m fine, thank you.” It’s still too sweet, but not as bad as last time. “I should really be going.” Orcot rubs his eyes. “God, the paperwork on this is going to be an adventure.”

D gets up from his couch, one smooth, graceful motion. ”I’ll see you out, then,” he says, and leads Orcot to the front door.

Orcot tries not to look around, but it’s hard. There are a lot of plants that he can see, fish tanks against the wall, bird cages hanging from the ceiling. Nothing too exotic, though Orcot’s idea of exotic runs along the line of hairless cats and weird-looking fish. He has an idea D doesn’t keep the *really* exotic stuff out there people can see.

”If there’s anything else I can do,” D says, “please don’t hesitate to call and let me know.” He opens the door and inclines his head in Orcot’s direction.

”Or, you know,” Orcot says, standing in the doorway, “I could drop by sometime. Probably around teatime.” He really, really wants to scuff his toe against the ground, but doesn’t. What the hell is *wrong* with him? Maybe there’s something in the tea.

”It *does* seem to be part of a pattern,” D says, smiling at him. “Maybe next time, you’ll even take a cookie.”
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