“I’ll have a look at it. You get some ice and some Tylenol when we get inside, please.” He got out of the cop-mobile, grateful for his long legs, and opened the door for Alain, who climbed down like he was scaling Mount Kilimanjaro.
Neil stepped out and went around to pull out Alain’s duffel, hauling it up on his shoulder.
It was strange to be more concerned about Neil than Alain at the moment. Alain had recovered well from his assault physically, and it seemed like time with Cyrus had really helped him emotionally too. He and Neil had had long discussions themselves at the time to get past their own anger that someone could try to claim to be in their community and abuse a boy so terribly. Neil had saved the world then too and put the men responsible behind bars.
He’d never asked what condition those assholes had been in when they arrived at the station. He really hadn’t needed to.
“Alain, the guest room is here.” He stopped in the hall. “It’s pretty small. There are sheets in that chest against the back wall.”
“It’s perfect, Mister Doctor. Thank you for letting me stay. I surely appreciate you.” God, that voice was sweet, lilting, and Isaac liked the way it reminded him of music.
“I’m glad to have you. It will be good to catch-up.” He stepped aside to let Neil put the duffel down on the bed, then caught his sometimes sub by the arm. “Tylenol. Ice. Did you eat?”
“Not since last night. Spaghetti.” Neil let him look, the stitches starting near his eye and leading across his temple, the gunpowder stippling obvious.
Someone had shot at Neil, at close range.
He swallowed hard against the sick feeling in his stomach and caught Neil by the nape, finding the hazel eyes and looking into them. He didn’t hide his frown or his worry and tried to say something, anything. He couldn’t find the right words, and gave up, pulling Neil into a tight hug.
Neil trembled in his arms, arms wrapping around to hold him tight, and that spoke volumes, those heavily muscled arms keeping him close.
“Jesus, Neil.” He told himself he was allowed to be upset for a minute. That gunpowder was fucking terrifying, and he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now.”
Alain was doing his best to look invisible, sitting on the end of the bed with his nose in some magazine Isaac had obviously left there. Such a good boy. He wondered if he should ask Alain to throw something together for Neil after all.
“Let me stay a minute?” Neil whispered, the sound so very soft. “Please, Sir?”
“You’re staying the night, boy. I insist.” That was that. Neil had been clear, finally, so the rest was up to him. “Alain, could I trouble you to make something easy on the stomach for Neil, please? Just help yourself to my kitchen.”
“Yes, Sir!” Alain’s face lit up. “I’m on it. Poor chou. That looks like it hurt.”
“I’m okay, kiddo. Don’t you worry.”
“I’ll cook. You’ll be so good. You see.” Alain grinned at them both and slipped past them into the hall.
“The kitchen is at the far end.”
Alain nodded and hurried down the hall.
Isaac let Neil go but kept hold of one hand. “Let’s sit. I want to know what happened.”
2
Lord have mercy, Alain Remy Broussard thought his life had slip-slid from one bit of crazy to another. From a little shotgun in Houma, playing with gris-gris bags and learning how to cook and paint from his granny to traveling around the country with a band of performance artists to landing here.
Here in the Big Apple.
Here in this apartment with two men that he knew because they’d saved him, along with Master Cyrus and Brandon and his best bud, Peter.
Here in this kitchen with just about nothing that worked as food, god help him.
Alain had finally managed to make a workable rice pudding—complete with fat, plump raisins and a dollop of cinnamon as a lagniappe. Easy on the belly, the Mister Doctor Sir had said.
Fine fucking man. Alain thought he could just kneel down and worship, in the best ways.
But first, food for the hurtin’ one, the chou.
That was the biggest thing.