Fever

Edge Of Reality

You're in the bathroom touching up your hair when Elvis calls to you from the bedroom.

"Y/N!"

You tousle your bed head, fingers moving down to touch at the love bite resting on your collarbone. The flesh there is tender, a sweet reminder of last night.

"Yes?" You call back, turning your head towards the open door.

Elvis walks towards you, black robe sleek and alluring as it flows around him. He looks serious, reaching his hand out towards you.

"C'mere, doll. Need to show you something."

You follow, his grip on your hand gentle and reassuring.

Over on the vanity is a long, wide case. Elvis moves to pop open the silver buckles keeping it closed one other side, methodical and focused. You noticed his behavior had been a little off this morning, Elvis having woken up before you, but you didn't really think anything of it.

Now, however, as he reveals what looks to be at least ten handheld guns and badges inside this wooden case, confusion and worry clouds your brain.

Elvis picks one up, the body an elegant silver with a turquoise handle, and offers it towards you. You raise your eyebrows.

"Baby, what is this?"

Is he joking, you wonder? Or does he really mean to give you a gun of all things?

Elvis gestures it towards you.

"Take it, angel. It's for you."

"Elvis," you say, a little incredulously. "I've never even held a gun before."

His behavior is starting to worry you, his eyes unfocused and dark as he looks at you. He sets his lips in a firm line, grabbing your wrist.

It's not hard- he doesn't hurt you- but the movement shocks you a little.

Elvis places the gun in your hand, your clumsy fingers wrapping around the cool handle.

"Its not loaded, Y/N." Elvis says, as if this reassures you. "I want you to get used to the feel of it, baby. Just in case some guy tries you like last night."

You look up at him, eyebrows furrowed together.

"Elvis, I don't think a gun is really necessary -"

"Damnit, Y/N." Elvis snaps, making you jump. He's never really spoken to you like this before, and it scares you a little. You put the gun down.

Elvis notices, taking a deep breath and moving to put his hands on you shoulders. He brushes a lock of hair out of your face.

"I can't always be with you to protect you, little one." His tone is much softer now, and you feel yourself relaxing. "I just want you to have something for my piece a mind, okay?"

You swallow, giving a small nod.

He seems erratic, so different from the Elvis you're used to. His hand comes to cup your cheek gently, and you lean into the touch.

"Promise me you'll keep it on you, angel."

You cover his hand with yours.

"I promise."

He beams, and the change in mood leaves your head swimming.

"That's my good girl."

Elvis kisses you quick, moving away to shut the case. After the buckles are secured, he moves over to the wardrobe, flicking through shirts and slacks.

"Got a meeting with the Colonel in a few, why don't you and Candice head out and explore the city a little?" Elvis tells you. You're stuck staring at the little silver and blue gun, still in disbelief.

"Uh, yeah, that'd be fun." You respond, absent-minded.

"I'll send Charlie and Jerry with ya, keep you two girls outta trouble!" He jokes, and you smile, but your hearts not in it.

When Elvis is finally dressed, he comes over to kiss you goodbye.

"Have fun today, darlin'. I'll see you before the show tonight, alright?"

You nod, leaning up to kiss him again.

Elvis smiles into it, and you start to feel a little better.

"I love you."

You smile.

"I love you, too, Elvis."

"Never gonna get tired a hearin' that."

You giggle.

"I'm never going to get tired of saying it."

He kisses you once more.

"I gotta go, baby, gonna be late!" He bounds towards the door, full of energy despite having been exhausted after last night.

You wave to him, blowing him a kiss as he leaves.

Once the door is shut, you sigh, flopping down on the bed.

What just happened?

You roll over onto your stomach, resting your cheek in the crook of your elbow, and stare at the nightstand.

It's then you notice something you hadn't before- a little brown bottle with a white cap sitting on Elvis's side of the bed.

You furrow your eyebrows.

Elvis hadn't taken anything last night to sleep. Usually his sleeping capsules are kept in a bright orange bottle. You sit up, reaching for the bottle.

Guilt tugs at you a little, not wanting to be nosy, but your hand closes around the bottle anyway.

Dexedrine, the label read.

You're confusion turns to worry.

Why would Elvis be taking weight loss pills? You yourself had taken Dexedrine, Candice too.

That had been when you had first started you career as a dancer, though, both you and Candice deciding to stop using the drug once you found it almost impossible to get to sleep after taking them.

It clicks suddenly.

Elvis had to be taking these to wake up, to be more alert for the busy press schedule's of the tour. That would explain his erratic behavior this morning, the way his eyes had seemed blown wide and unfocused as he handed you the gun.

You frown.

This paired with the sleeping pills couldn't be good for him.

Setting the pills down, you decide to talk about it with him after the show tonight.

Tomorrow you'd all be on a plane to the next state, the next city, the next hotel. It wouldn't do any good to ask him about it then. You bite your lip, sitting up with a sigh,

You scratch at you shoulder, your eyes landing on the gun you left on the vanity. Standing, you walk over to it, picking it up and feeling the weight of it in your hands. The metal is cold, unforgiving. 

It's beautiful.

Deadly.

You look at your reflection, eyes darting down to the weapon clutched in your hand.  

You can't help but wonder if sequins match gun metal grey.