Title: When I Was Older
Fandom: Guardian
Rating: G
Length: ~4000 words
Notes: Shen Wei/Zhao Yunlan, canon-divergent AU. Implied spoilers up to episode 5. Also for the prompts Loud (FFW bingo) and De-Aging (crack bingo). Tons of thanks to cyphomandra and trobadora for beta. No warnings apply. (More author notes at the end.)
Language notes: Hei Lao Ge = Old Brother Black (informal). The Mandarin equivalent of "Speak of the Devil" is "Speak of Cao Cao, and Cao Cao arrives." (Originally a quotation from Romance of the Three Kingdoms.)
Summary: Zhao Yunlan stops in his tracks. “Hey, you’re that undergrad Li Qian’s tutoring.” He snaps his fingers. “Shen Wei, right?”


The second time they meet, Zhao Yunlan is spectacularly drunk and can’t find his keys. “Damn Cat, let me in!” he hollers, hammering on his apartment door. He leans his cheek against the cool paint. “I need to piss!”

But Da Qing must be out prowling rooftops again. It is—Zhao Yunlan squints at his phone—past 1am, shit. He tries the door handle in vain, then hammers louder in the hopes Da Qing is there and has just gone temporarily deaf. “Come on, lemme in, I forgot my keys!”

“Excuse me.” A measured voice from behind him makes him jump, and then the body attached to the voice—a guy in silk pyjamas, whose thick-framed glasses don’t begin to conceal how stunningly good-looking he is—crouches down.

Zhao Yunlan is so surprised that for a moment his ankles seem to fizz.

The guy stands up and holds something out. “Your keys. You must have dropped them.”

Zhao Yunlan points. The hallway’s a bit swimmy from the baijiu, and the paisleys on the pyjamas aren’t helping him keep his balance, but there’s something familiar about the guy. “Do I know you?”

Pyjama Guy’s eyelashes sweep down, and when they rise again, his expression has shifted from disapproving to something dark and intent. “I’ve just moved in across the hall.”

“Oh, really?” Zhao Yunlan leans closer and lowers his voice. “Hey, then can I use your loo? My cat won’t let me in and I really need to piss.”

Pyjama Guy doesn’t answer and apparently gives up on his taking the keys, instead unlocking the door himself. He takes Zhao Yunlan’s arm to help him inside, as if Zhao Yunlan were a hundred years old. Zhao Yunlan still manages to fall over a dumbbell on the floor and nearly faceplants into the coffee table, but Pyjama Guy is surprisingly strong and catches him, swinging him around into his silk-clad arms as if they were dancing, which would be amusing and also really hot if Zhao Yunlan weren’t nauseated by the motion.

As it is, he struggles free, mutters an excuse and bolts for the bathroom.

When he comes back, there’s no one there. He drinks the glass of water on the bedside table and crawls beneath the covers without giving it too much thought.


*


The next night, he gets home late. They’d spent the day chasing down what Lin Jing kept calling a snot monster, and the Black Cloaked Envoy hadn’t shown up until the SID had cornered it in an alley and it was a second and a half from angrily sneezing acidic goo all over Zhao Yunlan’s team. Zhao Yunlan’s tired and a little bit slimy, or maybe it just feels that way because he’s still hung over from the night before. Plus he keeps getting distracted thinking about his hot new neighbour. What are the chances they could continue that dance they started? That would be worth staying sober for. And hey, speak of Cao Cao, as Zhao Yunlan reaches the top of the stairs, Pyjama Guy emerges from his own apartment.

Except today he’s wearing a blue sweater, pale slacks, dazzling white sneakers and a backpack with the straps over both shoulders. With those ugly glasses thrown in, he looks about eighteen.

Something clicks, and Zhao Yunlan’s daydreams screech to a halt. He stops in his tracks. “Hey, you’re that undergrad Li Qian’s tutoring.” He snaps his fingers. “Shen Wei, right?”

The student smiles bashfully. Zhao Yunlan remembers meeting him the first time: young, wide-eyed and attractive. But he definitely doesn’t remember the kid being so hot. Zhao Yunlan feels like a dirty old man just looking at him.

“Chief Zhao. I trust you’ve recovered from last night.”

Zhao Yunlan waves his concern away and puts on his best mentor voice. “What about you? Any ill-effects from falling off the roof of the university?”

“No, I was quite lucky those bushes broke my fall. Chief Zhao, I wonder if you would do me a favour.” Shen Wei slips one of the straps from his shoulder and swings his backpack around to the front. “I made snacks for my study group tonight—”

“Snacks, huh?” Zhao Yunlan’s neglected stomach rumbles loudly at the word. He tries to ignore it and hopes the kid didn’t hear.

“Yes, but now it seems our meeting has been relocated to a restaurant. But I suppose you’ve already eaten…”

“Hey, if there’s food going begging, I’m your guy. But what about your parents?”

“They died when I was young. I live alone.” Shen Wei starts unpacking containers into Zhao Yunlan’s arms: a thermos of soup, rice, dumplings. It keeps coming. It’s as if he’s catered for a six-course banquet. And they’re not take-out containers, they’re real, store-bought ones, the kind you use for home cooking. When he’s finished, Zhao Yunlan’s arms are overflowing with food, his mouth is watering, and the backpack is completely empty.

Zhao Yunlan raises his eyebrows. “I thought you said you had study group. Where are your textbooks?”

A flash of disconcertion crosses Shen Wei’s face. “I… I left them at the university.”

“Mm.” Zhao Yunlan doesn’t believe him for a second, but he’s also not going to turn down free food, whatever the motive. Especially when it smells so delicious. “Did you buy all this?”

“What?” Shen Wei blinks. “Ah, no.”

“Okay. Well, study hard. I’ll see you around.” Zhao Yunlan watches Shen Wei walk away, stifles a pang of regret that Hot Pyjama Guy is so young, then somehow manages to get his front door open without spilling food all over the hallway, and settles in on the couch for the best feast he’s had in a decade.

Da Qing arrives home in time to steal the last prawn dumpling out from under Zhao Yunlan’s chopsticks.

“Hey!” says Zhao Yunlan.

“You’re too slow for my predator reflexes,” Da Qing reminds him, smugly. “What’s all this food?”

“A gift from my new neighbour.” Zhao Yunlan shovels more fried rice into his mouth, while he has the chance. It’s so good, he could keep eating all night even though he’s already stuffed.

Da Qing’s face twitches. “Oh really? Tell me more about this culinary benefactor.”

So Zhao Yunlan tells him about his misadventure the night before, getting drunk, losing his keys, being rescued by Shen Wei in his pyjamas. And how Shen Wei had been gone by the time Zhao Yunlan returned from the bathroom.

Da Qing snickers. “So, less of a meet cute than a meet puke.”

“It’s not like that,” says Zhao Yunlan, even though it totally had been. “He’s just a kid. An undergrad.”

“Is he over twenty?”

Zhao Yunlan swats at Da Qing to disguise the fact he’s been trying not to wonder the same thing. “I’m a respectable old police chief. I don’t hit on students.”

“What do you know about old?” Da Qing scoffs and steals a piece of orange beef.

Zhao Yunlan, appetite finally subsiding, passes over his used chopsticks. “Anyway, there’s something off about this kid. There’s no way he moved across the hall from me by accident.”

Last night could have been a fluke; tonight makes it a pattern. Shen Wei must be from a wealthy family if he can afford his own apartment, and he certainly has the confidence of a rich heir, but there’s none of the bratty entitlement Zhao Yunlan expects from that sort. If anything, he’s too polite. It makes him seem otherworldly.

“You’ve got a groupie,” sing-songs Da Qing. Ugh, he’s going to tell the others at the SID.

Zhao Yunlan tries to act disinterested so as not to encourage him, but he can’t pull it off. He can still remember the sickening near-fall last night, and Shen Wei’s arms closing around him. The guy had looked a lot more mature in pyjamas. Zhao Yunlan mutters, “Shut up, or I won’t share my lychee jelly.”


*


The next time they meet is when Zhao Yunlan catches Shen Wei seemingly red-handed at a crime scene and takes him back to SID headquarters for interrogation.

“I know this kid,” Zhao Yunlan tells Zhu Hong and Chu Shuzhi in the hallway outside the interrogation room. “He’s friends with Li Qian, and he makes incredible prawn dumplings. Pretty sure he’s too good a cook to be a serial killer.”

Zhu Hong rolls her eyes at this logic. Chu Shuzhi shakes his head and mutters something about Humans.

Zhao Yunlan winks at them and takes two plastic cups of tea into the interrogation room. He gives one to Shen Wei and then, mostly because he’s curious to see who, if anyone, the guy will call, says, “Are you sure you don’t want a guardian present?”

Shen Wei’s eyes widen, but by the time Zhao Yunlan notices, he’s already elaborated, “Uncle, aunt, or other relative?” and Shen Wei’s got himself back under control. Damn, what was that?

“No, thank you.”

Zhao Yunlan cuts to the chase. He doesn’t think Shen Wei’s the one they’re looking for, but he has to make sure. Maybe all that food was to buy Zhao Yunlan’s good will or to toy with him. “Dragon City University’s in the north of the city, you live in the west. What were you doing in the south so late at night?”

“I was running an errand for a friend. Chief Zhao, I’m telling you now, you won’t find my fingerprints at the crime scene—you’ll find those of the real perpetrator.” Shen Wei is too composed, too sure of himself. He’s got a secret, and he’s not even trying to hide that fact.

Zhao Yunlan leans in, and Shen Wei meets his gaze openly. It’s easy to forget how young he is.

“If you’re innocent, you won’t mind if I take a look through your schoolbag. Make sure you don’t have a murder weapon in there with your books.”

In fact, whatever monster is killing these women and stealing their faces isn’t using a weapon, but Shen Wei shouldn’t know that, and Zhao Yunlan wants to see how he’ll react.

He barely hesitates: just lifts his backpack onto the table and makes a help-yourself gesture.

Zhao Yunlan doesn’t know what he expects to find, but there’s got to be a clue, something to explain who this guy really is. He unzips the bag. The first thing he fishes out is a student ID. It looks real, and the date of birth puts Shen Wei’s age at barely twenty. That’s four years younger than xiao Guo! Zhao Yunlan feels like a pervert for the number of times he’s mentally replayed the moment when Shen Wei stopped him from falling and swung him into his arms. He’s got to stop doing that.

“How did you come to be living in an apartment instead of the student dorms?” he asks while he searches the bag. “That must be costing you a chunk of change.”

“I’m on a private scholarship.” Based on his tone, money is of no concern.

“Oh, you will have got top grades then. A hard worker, no doubt, but I can tell you’re smart too.” Zhao Yunlan waits until the compliment registers—a slight flush in the cheeks—then continues. “So then why do you need tutoring from Li Qian?”

“I missed a portion of high school due to—” Shen Wei stops and finishes, carefully, “an indisposition.”

“What does that mean? Were you sick?” He looks healthy enough now. Fit, too. And when he saved Zhao Yunlan from landing on his face the other night, he’d made it seem effortless. Zhao Yunlan drags his attention back to the contents of the bag.

“Family circumstances. I’m still catching up on the classes I missed,” says Shen Wei.

“Mm.” Zhao Yunlan pulls out a stack of books and papers and dumps them on the table. There are biology, chemistry and calculus texts, copious lecture notes in neat handwriting, photocopies of scientific papers, and an essay on mutations. There’s nothing to link Shen Wei to the murders and, sadly, no snacks.

Zhao Yunlan leafs idly through the lecture notes, and the words “dark energy” in parentheses jump out at him. He breathes an involuntary huh! of surprise and skims back for context, but the notes are a cryptic blur of scientific jargon. He perches on the edge of the table and looms, just a little. “Shen Wei, have you ever seen people who can move things without touching them, are impervious to knives and bullets, and can even change their shapes?”

If he hopes to startle a reaction out of Shen Wei, he’s disappointed. The kid just tilts his head. “There were a lot of different people around, when I was younger.”

“Where did you grow up—a travelling circus?”

Shen Wei frowns. “Chief Zhao, do you think that the Dixing people are really so different from us?”

“You even know about the Dixing people.” Zhao Yunlan narrows his eyes.

Shen Wei’s expression goes blank, and he sips his tea. “I read a lot.”

“I’d like to take a look at those books you’ve been reading. In fact, would you mind if I made a copy of your lecture notes? I think my technical specialist would enjoy them.”

“By all means.”

“Okay.” Zhao Yunlan takes out a pen and notebook. “While we’re at it, tell me the names of the others in your study group.”

The cup lands on the table with careful precision, and Shen Wei provides three names so politely that it’s obvious he’d rather not have said. Which is the most normal part of this whole interview. No one wants the cops contacting their friends.

“Do you have their cell numbers?”

“Not on me, I’m afraid. I don’t have a mobile phone.” Shen Wei doesn’t explain why, just looks appropriately apologetic. “Well, Chief Zhao, have I convinced you I’m not a suspect?”

“Sure, yeah.” The kid is something—maybe a vigilante, maybe an aspiring field research scientist with no sense of self-preservation, maybe a Dixingren himself given he survived that fall from the university roof—but he isn’t a killer. “You can go.”

Shen Wei smiles and inclines his head very slightly. For all his actual age, there’s something timeless about him, like he’s been on his own too long.

He packs up his bag, and Zhao Yunlan ushers him out of the interrogation room. Naturally, Da Qing seizes the opportunity to say, loud enough for the others and Shen Wei to hear, “Boss, shouldn’t you make sure the student gets home safely? Since you live in the same building and everything.”

Zhu Hong purses her crisply outlined red lips. Zhao Yunlan glares at Da Qing, who adds helpfully, “There is a murderer on the streets.”

And dammit, he’s not wrong, even if he’s obviously been hanging around with alley cats again. Zhao Yunlan grabs his jacket and points at Shen Wei. “My deputy is right. It’s late. I’ll drive you home.”

Shen Wei nods his assent. Da Qing smothers a grin. Zhu Hong still looks sceptical, but Zhao Yunlan doesn’t have to explain himself. There’s nothing going on here. They’re neighbours, and Shen Wei is hiding something.

Zhao Yunlan is determined to keep his own curiosity professional. Younger than xiao Guo, he reminds himself, but it’s like his hindbrain doesn’t believe him.

He gets Zhu Hong to copy the lecture notes and gives the originals back to the kid, who tucks them into his bag and follows Zhao Yunlan outside.

They don’t talk on the drive home. At one point Shen Wei looks like he’s about to say something, and Zhao Yunlan should listen—the guy mentioned dark energy in his notes, for fuck’s sake—but whatever it is, Shen Wei decides not to spill. Zhao Yunlan turns on the radio and lets music fill the car. It’s been a long couple of days.

As they reach the hallway to their apartments, Zhao Yunlan twirls his keys around his finger and plans the rest of his solitary evening: a few glasses of wine and then sleep, hopefully dreamless. “Goodnight, kid.”

Shen Wei doesn’t answer straight away. Then, “Could I have my containers back, please?”

“Ah.” The food containers are still piled on Zhao Yunlan’s kitchen counter in a dirty heap. “I’ll bring them over sometime.” That sounds lecherous, even to his own ears. He quickly amends it to, “I’ll leave them outside your door.”

“Chief Zhao.” Shen Wei stops and faces him, and there’s too much in the kid’s face. Too much intensity, too much focus, too much wanting. “You’re welcome to bring them over. And whenever you get hungry—”

“What?”

“I often make too much food,” says Shen Wei. “You’d be doing me a favour.”

If he were ten years older, Zhao Yunlan wouldn’t hesitate, even with all the unspoken secrets and mysteries.

“Chief Zhao?”

“I’ll leave the containers outside your door.” Zhao Yunlan waves goodnight, lets himself into his apartment and collapses on the couch with a tired groan.

After two glasses of wine, he drags himself to the kitchen and grimly washes the containers. He stacks them as well as he can and takes them out into the hallway. Shen Wei’s front door is blank and inviting, and Zhao Yunlan could throw caution to the wind. Invite himself in for a chat. He could call the kid xiao Shen and take him under his wing, give him some friendly companionship in exchange for more of that divine home-cooked food and the opportunity to admire that beautiful face.

And that’s the problem. The potential between them is undeniable and oh, so alluring; Zhao Yunlan can’t trust himself not to give in to it. And he refuses to be that guy.

He quietly places the containers outside Shen Wei’s door, goes back into his own apartment and pours himself another drink.


*


“Chief Zhao, you only saw the single life in front of you, but if the Longevity Dial is activated again, the consequences are impossible to predict.” The Black Cloaked Envoy looks incongruously dramatic in the mundane confines of Zhao Yunlan’s office.

There’s also tension evident around his mouth. His lips are pale. Zhao Yunlan frowns. Had saving Butler Wu at the SID team’s request taken so much out of him? “Sit down, Hei Lao Ge. Take a load off. You look tired.”

“As you may know, my powers are restricted in Haixing. I’ll be able to replenish my energy when I take Wu Xiaojun and his father back down below.”

Zhao Yunlan can only take him at his word, so he answers the Envoy’s earlier admonition. “Protecting the life in front of me is all I can do.” He grins. “I am the Lord of the Guardians, after all, and every life is precious, Human, Dixing or Yashou. If there are consequences—ah, I’ll deal with them when the time comes.”

“Not all consequences can be resolved so easily.” The Envoy steps closer, his gaze stern. Does he never smile? “Chief Zhao, you should not be so careless of your own well-being.”

Zhao Yunlan claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

He feels rather than hears the Envoy’s sigh, and the shoulder muscles shift as the Envoy delves into his robes and places a handful of incense cones on Zhao Yunlan’s desk, on top of a Department of Supervision memo about building maintenance.

“If there’s anything I can do to assist, send for me,” says the Envoy. “I won’t just stand by when the safety of people around me is at stake.”

Zhao Yunlan picks up one of the cones and sniffs it, and the faint scent tugs at a memory he can’t quite place. He points at the Envoy. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to get a cellphone? It would be much more convenient.”


*


The Envoy’s lips are moving. Zhao Yunlan registers that while his ears are still roaring and ringing from the blast. Slowly words start to penetrate the aural haze. “Chief Zhao! Chief Zhao, are you all right? Zhao Yunlan!”

The Envoy grips his shoulders, checks his arms and chest for injury. His hands are shaking, urgent.

Zhao Yunlan is fine, as far as he can tell—just a bit bruised and battered—but he doesn’t try to stop him. “What happened?”

“I was able to block the front of the explosion—”

That will be why the building’s still standing. Why Zhao Yunlan is still able to breathe these shallow dusty breaths.

“—but I couldn’t contain the blast entirely. Chief Zhao, how many times have I told you—”

“I know, I know, I should have summoned you. Believe me, I regret it.” Zhao Yunlan grabs the Envoy’s sleeve. “Lao Chu? Xiao Guo?”

“They’re safe. Chu Shuzhi apprehended Bi Mengxi before she could escape.” The Envoy’s mouth tightens. “I’m sorry I arrived so late.”

Nearly directly above them, through a large jagged hole in the ceiling, the stars are spinning too fast.

“You’re here now. And if the building had collapsed, I’d be toast, so thanks. I’ll buy you a drink sometime.” Zhao Yunlan says it sincerely, but he’s invited the Envoy to socialise with him enough times—for a meal, a nightcap, a cup of tea, even a lollipop—without success that he doesn’t hold out any hope of acceptance now.

But something’s different this time. Those dark eyes are watching him through the mask, shadowed with concern, vaguely familiar as always. “Why?”

“What?” Zhao Yunlan licks concrete dust from his lips, grimaces at the taste, and struggles to sit upright. He’s too banged up to be anything less than candid. “Honestly, I’m curious. I want to know you better.”

One of the Envoy’s hands is still on his upper arm, holding him steady.

Zhao Yunlan takes that as encouragement. He lowers his voice and looks up at the Envoy through his eyelashes. “I think if we got to know each other, Hei Lao Ge, we could be very good friends.”

There’s the slightest twitch at the corner of the Envoy’s mouth. It draws an answering smirk from Zhao Yunlan, but then the Envoy frowns and draws away a little.

His robes are streaked grey with dust. There’s even a smudge on his chin. Zhao Yunlan itches to reach out and wipe it clean, to see if his skin is cool or warm, if he’s as clean shaven as he looks. Whether those lips are firm or as soft and innocent as they occasionally seem.

Maybe Zhao Yunlan has a concussion. Maybe he should take advantage of that. “Hei Lao Ge, I nearly died just now.”

The Envoy’s eyes flash dark. “Are you injured?”

“No, but life is short. When our hearts tell us to take a chance, we shouldn’t hesitate.”

The Envoy’s tongue comes out to wet his lips. “What do you want?”

“Would you—” Zhao Yunlan’s heart is thumping, and it’s not from the close call with death. Can he ask this? Is there any chance the Envoy will say yes? The curiosity which has been keeping him up at nights—only partly as a welcome distraction from his out-of-bounds young neighbour—urges him on. “Would you take off your mask for me?”

The Envoy lowers his gaze for a moment, then takes a heavy breath. He bends forward and cups Zhao Yunlan’s jaw, presses a cool, firm kiss to his lips. The edge of his mask juts into Zhao Yunlan’s nose and cheek, but Zhao Yunlan barely notices. He’s dizzy with pleasure, fisting his hands in the Envoy’s robes to stop him from ever pulling away. He opens his mouth and flicks the tip of his tongue out to invite the Envoy’s in.

The Envoy wraps his hands around Zhao Yunlan’s wrists and breaks away. His breathing is uneven, and his face seems flushed behind the mask. “All right,” he says.

“Ah.” At last! Zhao Yunlan has long suspected the Envoy’s face will be as pure and stern and ageless as his character. He’s dying to find out for sure.

“Zhao Yunlan,” says the Envoy gravely, “there’s something you should know about me.” And he takes off his mask.



END



Author notes:

One way to make a story is to think of a problem and have your characters try to solve it. And I hit on this great (read: difficult) problem and started writing it, and then discovered I had no idea how to resolve it. I went through stages of “this premise is fundamentally flawed” and “there’s no way to end this” and “well, there is if I’m prepared to write 20k words (I’m not)” and “Oh God No, this is going to invite purity wank,” before I finally hit on an ending that works for me.

By all of which I mean, there are things about this story I’m fond of, but it’s just a flashfic and in no way a hill I’m willing to die (or even sustain injury) on. I mostly finished it to prove to myself that I could. :-)

Thanks to extrapenguin for encouragement to take a break and then try again at finding an ending (it worked!) and to cupidsbow for suggesting an explosion in the final act. (I didn’t use that suggestion how she intended, but I did use it.)

And copious extra-sparkly thanks to cyphomandra for trope consultation and beta and to trobadora for beta and ruthlessly making me add another scene, even when she initially didn’t like the premise. *showers you both with large quantities of grateful hearts*