“Why you never flinch, no matter what I throw at you. You’ve lived it all already, haven’t you?”
There was sadness in Jamie’s cracking voice, and Marc couldn’t bear it. His own scars were there for the world to see when he let them show, and it was his own intolerance of pity that kept them hidden. It was different for Jamie. He hid his wounds with shame he didn’t deserve, and it wasn’t fucking fair.
Marc removed his prosthesis and stepped into the shower, using the discreet plastic ledge for support. Then he beckoned Jamie forward and, under the hot spray, positioned his fragile frame to get the maximum relief from the pummelling water. Jamie groaned at first, but then the release of tension came, and he sagged against Marc, who held him up while steadying himself on the ledge and the tiled wall.
The water tank for the big old house was huge, and Marc was half-asleep when it finally began to give out. He pushed Jamie’s wet hair out of his face and shook him gently to rouse him. “We need to move.”
“Wha...?”
“It’s getting cold,” Marc said. “Which will undo all the good work the heat has done.”
Comprehension flickered in Jamie’s dazed eyes. He straightened up, reclaiming his weight from Marc, and turned his face into the spray, rubbing his eyes, before Mac turned the water off and then reached for the towel.
“Where’s yours?” Jamie asked as Marc set about drying Jamie, avoiding his reddened and bruised patches of skin. “I want to dry you too.”
A quip about having half as much flesh to worry about rattled through Marc’s brain, but he swallowed it, focussing instead on Jamie’s naked body, torn between his instinct to heal it as best he could, and to drop to his knees and worship it in an entirely different fashion.
Not for the first time, the need to take care of Jamie won out, but he let Jamie have his way and relinquished the towel.
Jamie ran it slowly over Marc, pausing here and there to ghost his fingertips along Marc’s damp skin, to press his lips to the places that made Marc shiver. “I want to dry your legs, but it hurts too much to bend down.”
“Leave them.”
“No. I don’t want you to get cold.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“You have a big dick.”
“Um... thanks, I suppose?” Marc pried the towel from Jamie’s grasp and quickly rubbed it over his legs. Then he tossed the towel aside, pondering his next move. Jamie needed rest—they both did—but something told him that he’d have a hard time convincing Jamie to settle down in Marc’s rarely used bed on his own.So? Just get in with him and get some fucking shut-eye.
Quasi-Nat took Marc by surprise, reminding him of the three messages lying, unopened, on his phone, each preview more irately concerned than the last. Oh, how times had changed.
“Marc?” Jamie grasped Marc’s hand and squeezed. “Damn, you disappear sometimes.”
“What?”
“You space out when you’re tired.”
Marc couldn’t deny that. Years ago, exhaustion had been conversely energising, merged with the adrenaline of trying not to get slotted for days at a time. But civilian life had softened him, and his brain no longer won the game of chicken he played with his sleep pattern. He took Jamie’s face in his hands and traced the dark smudges beneath Jamie’s eyes with his thumbs. “I’m not the only one who’s tired. Do you think you can sleep?”
“I don’t know. Walking home will probably wake me up too much, and my flat’s really bright during the day—”
“You’re not walking home,” Marc interrupted. “I meant do you think you can sleep here? I left my car at the hospital, but I can get you a cab home if you’d rather be there.”
“I already told you... I want to be with you.”
It was all the answer Marc needed. He strapped his pros back on, and then, keeping hold of Jamie’s hand, he led him to his bedroom at the end of the hall. The bed was as pristine as he’d left it the last time he’d tried to sleep there one hellish night after he’d returned from Chicago, when, ironically, only pondering the fate of the beautiful stranger he’d met on the plane had kept him from hitting the bottle. Needlessly putting clean sheets on the next morning had felt like the worst brand of failure, but he was glad he’d bothered now. Jamie liked clean things, even if he didn’t particularly like himself.
Marc let go of Jamie and went to the antique drawers in the corner, rummaging for something for both him and Jamie to sleep in. Jamie came up behind him. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for clothes.”
“Your clothes won’t fit me.”
“But you’ll be warm,” Marc said absently.
Jamie reached around him and grabbed two pairs of sweatpants. “These will do. Come on.”