Promise Rock 03 - Living Promises (MM) (26 page)

D
EACON
felt better after that—maybe it was the night air, or the happiness at seeing Benny again. Benny was, well, Benny. She filled the house with joy because she lived there, and her knitting immediately took up a bag in the corner, and her voice, her quick, lively chatter, her profanity—which she tried to tame now, so Parry Angel didn't pick up on it—and the way she cared about everybody, openly and officiously and without apology. For much of her life she'd endured in a single bedroom with her sisters, a brutal alcoholic for a father, a weak enabler for a mother, and a brother who worked his ass off to give her anything he could manage.

Once she came to live with Deacon and the people around her loved her unconditionally, she responded with so much affection that she lit the world.

Benny and Crick were the reasons Deacon had faith in people. Crick helped Deacon back to his chair and got Benny's luggage situated, coming back into the living room from the hallway in full holler. “Benny, isn't that all the shit we sent with you, minus the furniture?”
“Yeah, genius—I've set it up with my professors that I only have to go back for finals. I figure maybe I can hit up Mikhail to use his van, since the performance season is over, and drive down one day to take my finals and get the furniture, and then I'm done. Off that campus and the hell out of LA for the rest of my natural life.”
Benny came in with her baby on her hip and a soda in the other hand and enough casual attitude to remind Deacon that she'd grown up a lot in the three and a half years since he'd taken her in as a runaway.
“Benny,” Deacon muttered, “that's not what we discussed!”
“Yeah,” Benny said, coming to sit on the couch near him. “I know it's not what we discussed. But it's what I want.”
He realized that he'd been holding an impromptu court all day, because everyone from Jon to Benny had come to sit by him instead of making him go to them. He was grateful—damned grateful—but at the same time he was suddenly so furious that he felt his cheeks grow red and his jaw ached from clenching. Dammit. God-fucking-dammit. He hadn't meant to make them all work like this. He was the strong one— even when he'd been his weakest, he'd been the one taking care of Benny, of Parry, sending care packages to Crick. He was the one who beat up Kimmy's scumbag ex-boyfriend and talked a skittish Mikhail in from the cold. It was his only way to give back to them, and now… now he was reduced to an old man in the corner, struggling to find breath for words.
“Benny, you were only supposed to come home early this semester—”
“And I hate it there, Deacon. I know you want what's best for me, right?”
Deacon sighed. “Always, Shorty.”
“What's best for me is here. I miss my baby, pure and simple, but it's more than that. All those big dreams I had, all that confidence to go and just knock the world on its ass?”
“Yeah?”
“I got that from here. And I just spent three and a half months thinking that I needed all that family to be that girl, okay?”
God, he was so weak. “We wanted you—”
“Yeah. So did I. But I just got this family, Deacon, and now you're sick, and now I know how damned easy it is to have my family yanked away from me. Don't make me leave it now, please?”
Her hair was brown. Her real, actual, color, just like Crick's color but lighter, brown, and not blond or orange or pink. It was cut short and frowzy around her eyes, making her small, heart-shaped face look gamine and appealing and her blue eyes look enormous, and he had to swallow against how much they had all missed her.
“Parry missed you so bad,” he said, and it was true. The little girl was still snuggled up into her mother's arms, her hands clenched tight and her little face buried in Benny's neck.
“What about you, Deacon?” she asked gently, and he had to look away.
“Well, Shortness, you do sort of brighten up the place,” he said, not wanting to tear up, because
God
, had he missed her.
Benny was suddenly on her knees in front of him with her head on his lap, and he was stroking her pixie-cut hair back from her face like he had when they'd first become roommates, two lost souls running away from their fear for Crick and their loneliness in general.
“I knew you missed me,” she said into his thigh, and he laughed a little.
“Yeah, well, I get attached easily,” he said playfully, and she turned a tear-stained face up to him, because she cried at the drop of a hat, and smiled, even as she clutched Parry to her.
“I'm so glad you do,” she said earnestly. “God, Deacon, you look like shit. You were supposed to stay healthy for us, you know that?”
“What can I say?” he asked rhetorically, trying to swallow past his tight jaw. “I'm contrary that way.”
As it turned out, the night before Thanksgiving was actually livelier than the real thing usually was. Shane and Mikhail stopped by to pick up the extra food that Jeff had brought, and they stayed to eat some early pie and some of the dinner too. Kimmy and Lucas were still at Promise House, but Martin asked Shane a sly question about his sister, and Shane replied with a smug smile.
“No, no, no sleepovers yet, you nosy little snot, but, well, she's giving him the time of day, and that's an improvement.”
Deacon was glad—he was glad for all of them, because even Jeff, who had seemed so damned lost, looked like he might actually be found, and that was an improvement. He popped his sore jaw and smiled. He wanted his family to be happy.
Crick and Andrew had needed to go out and feed the horses while everyone was gathered, and Deacon missed Crick as soon as he walked out. Crick must have said something to Jon, though, because Jon walked him over a slice of pie, away from the crowd in the kitchen. It was then that Deacon realized that he hadn't even made it to the table this night. It was crowded and chaotic, and usually he made everyone sit down, but his arm hurt, and his breath was short, and he was so very sleepy.
“Deacon, you want some?”
Deacon shook his head. He had, in fact, been a little bit queasy all day. “No, not hungry. But sit down for a minute—you look worried.”
“I'm worried about you, you dumbass. Man, I know you were waiting for Benny to get home before you had that procedure, but she's home. She's home to stay. You think you can call the doc tonight and ask to move up the date a little?”
“Crick ask you to ask me that?” Deacon put two and two together, and Jon nodded.
“He was having a hard time not freaking out, and he didn't want to freak you out—seems that's a bad thing to do when someone's got a heart condition.”
“Crick”—breathe, swallow, will that jaw to loosen—“worries too much.”
“Yeah, well now you've got the rest of us worried too. So how about we call that doctor now, so you can talk to him, and maybe we don't have to call an ambulance later when you can't.”
Deacon nodded dumbly, realizing that was probably exactly what needed to be done. “Yeah,” he said softly, and Jon gave a strangled little sob and collapsed on the couch, like everyone had been doing.
“Thank God. I'll take you to the other room, but I want you to call him now.”
Deacon scowled at Jon. “Man, don't you have to cook? We've got a house full of people who—”
“Look—you comforted Benny, checked in on Jeff, but I'm watching you, man. You can hardly meet Crick's eyes, and that means you're feeling guilty about something, and something is usually your health. He's going quietly insane, can't you see it? Look, I'll just walk you into the bedroom and dial the phone, okay? Can we do that? Please? Deacon, if twenty-five years of friendship means any fucking thing to you, can we do that for me?”
“Yeah,” Deacon said, feeling like his voice was from far away, “but Jon, could you do me a favor and help me up? Nothing seems to be working right.”
He ended up calling the doctor from the flat of his back, lying on the bed that he and Crick had been sharing for coming up on two years. He reckoned that about everything he loved was in this room, from the colors Crick had chosen, to the picture Crick had drawn them for their picnic-cum-wedding and the framed prints of the art Crick had painted in Europe, to, most times, Crick himself.
The doctor—and Lord, how Deacon wished he could go to Crick and Jeff's doctor, because Doc Herbert, as Jeff called him, seemed so accessible compared to this yahoo—listened to Deacon try to gasp out an explanation and then said the first sensible thing Deacon had heard all day.
“Mr. Winters, I need you to do me a favor and give the phone to someone else, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever. Jon, he wants to talk to you, or maybe Crick, but probably you, since Crick's out feeding the horses.”
Jon ran his hand through his pretty, pretty movie-star hair and picked up the phone, shaking in agitation. “Yeah, Doctor Mackey, I'm his friend. No, not his husband, his friend—what do you need to know?”
Suddenly Jon was touching Deacon's neck and looking at his watch and then spouting a number into the phone, and then he was saying, “Yeah, Doc—I'll get him packed and get Crick ready. Crick's going to be a total basket case.”
“Yeah,” Deacon mumbled. “He gets excited about shit. What did the doctor say?”
Jon swore and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “The doctor said you've been having a heart attack all day, you dumbass. He's sending an ambulance, and Crick's riding with you, and the rest of us will hold down the fort and then come to the hospital and worry. You're doing this procedure as soon as you're stabilized, and then, when you're all nice and recovered, I'm gonna rip you a sweet and shiny new asshole, because this is the second time in our lives you've scared the shit out of me, and I don't forgive easy!”
While he was talking, he grabbed a duffel bag from under the bed and started shoving drawers open and throwing pajamas and underwear and Deacon's shaving kit into it without a lot of consideration for the objects themselves. When he was done, he suddenly loomed up over Deacon, and he looked so miserable.
“Pretty speech,” Deacon said. “Did you practice that?”
“Shut up, asshole,” Jon sniffed. “I'm going to go scare the shit out of Crick now. You go anywhere while I'm gone, and I'll fucking kill you.”
He disappeared for a minute, and then Crick was there, sitting next to the bed, holding his hand, and Deacon smiled. Crick. All he'd ever wanted since that one magical day in April had been Crick.
“You look like hell, Carrick James.”
“You're the one going in the big bus, Deacon.”
“You're coming with me, right?” His voice trembled, warbled, and he was embarrassed. He wasn't really as scared as he sounded.
Crick's wide, capable hand surrounded his, and Crick leaned over and kissed his cheek. “There's not a place on the planet I'd rather be,” he said softly.
Things got confused after that, but he remembered Crick was there, even as the ache that had started in his shoulder swelled more and more insistently to his chest, and his head ached fiercely and words wouldn't come.
He was conscious of Crick there—all he knew was that Carrick wasn't going to leave him again.
When the whole thing was over, they told him that he was in fullon cardiac arrest by the time the ambulance got to the hospital.

Jeff: Containing the Explosion in Your Head

J
EFF
wasn't exactly sure how he and Martin ended up the hospital—or rather, he was pretty sure he didn't know how Martin had ended up there with him.

He was the family's resident health care professional, so after Deacon's discussion two weeks earlier, he'd done some research into Sick Sinus Syndrome (and what a fucking quirky little name for it) and had thought he had a handle on things. He was worried, but not consumed—it was treatable, right?

God, he'd underestimated Deacon's considerable will. Thinking back about the day, about Deacon sitting still, swallowing convulsively (against the tell-tale tightness in his jaw, Jeff thought now in disgust), it seemed as though he'd been getting all his ducks in a row. All his family was happy, and he could finally relax enough to go into Afib.
Awesome, Deacon. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, you selfmartyring bastard.
It wasn't fair—it wasn't. Jeff knew that. But he'd taken such steps, such precautions to not be angry at Kevin. Kevin was a hero. Kevin had loved him. Kevin had gone off to war.
Even after the letter, the painful dethroning of Jeff's dreams, he'd somehow managed to keep that vision of Kevin absolutely pure. It had been a moment of chance, a moment of depression. If Jeff had been there, Kevin wouldn't have felt so low that taking enemy fire had been the only way—he knew it. It was circumstance, a moment of weakness. All heroes had them.
He hadn't scaffolded his heart for Deacon that way, hadn't built the struts to support the lie. He thought of Deacon as the patriarch of his little family, the one he'd thrown his lot in with, just sitting there, practically dying in front of them, and he
needed
to hit something. He needed to scream, to detonate that little bubble of self-containment and narcissism that he'd been so attached to until it exploded outward and laid waste to anyone unlucky enough to be near.
Collin would be the first to go.
He knew this. He had the ability to be coldly rational; it was why he could hurt people for their own good. In that coldly rational part of his brain, he knew that if Collin were here, Jeff would take all of this pain out on him—and then Crick. And then Martin. And then anyone else nearby.
So he would keep himself cold, cold and rational. If he could hurt other people for their own good, he could keep his own pain contained for the same reasons. He would be Jeff the helper, Jeff the comedian—he knew that role. He was comfortable in it. It would keep his bubble intact, and then he could be true for his friends.
“I should have left you at The Pulpit,” he said to Martin apologetically. “Benny and Andrew and the babies are there—it would have been happier there. I'm sorry. I didn't think.”
Martin looked up from his corner with his video game and shrugged. “It's no worries. It's not like you planned this, right?”
Jeff shuddered and then grimaced. “I was just hoping… you know. I… I met your brother in the summer. It's the closest thing to a holiday with him I was ever going to get.”
Way to go, Jeffy—keep it light!
Martin looked suddenly old. “You just take care of your people, man. They sure do take care of you, right?”
“Right,” Jeff muttered, and then wandered off to see if he could take care of Jon and Amy.
Jon and Crick were sitting on the couch with Amy in between them. Amy was knitting furiously on something that looked easy and mindless, and Jeff was acutely jealous.
“Bitch,” he muttered. “I didn't even have my emergency sock in the damned car.”
Amy looked up and smiled a little, then burrowed in the bag at her feat. “I've got sock needles and a spare skein,” she said, and Jeff had to laugh. Maybe it was the mother thing that made her come prepared— even with extra knitting.
“I may take you up on that, sweets,” he promised, thinking he really would. The sock yarn was a subtle blend of fall colors, and Jeff fell in love a little. How wonderful would it be to just touch that and get lost in a stitch at a time for a while? He actually felt his heart rate even out a little, and then he was angry again.
Great. While Deacon was sitting in the living room, going into Afib, maybe he should have been knitting a fucking sweater, and wouldn't that have helped?
“But first, do you want some water or a soda or something?” he asked, afraid that anger was going to get the best of him, and everybody shook their heads.
“Later,” Amy murmured. “Maybe ask Shane or Mikhail. And tell Kimmy to come over here—if you won't knit, she can have it.”
“She might chew your face off,” Jeff warned. Kimmy had all the temper her brother did not.
“Good!” Amy looked excited. “Something to occupy my time! Where's Lucas?”
Jeff had heard Kimmy talking as they'd left. “He's over at Promise House—the kids are going to be disappointed when those three don't show up for Thanksgiving. Lucas's gonna be the papa-in-charge, I guess.” Poor guy. See? That was what happened when you smiled at a pretty face. Your whole life went to hell, and the next thing you knew, you were caught up in a shitload of drama that was not your own and wondering if this was the price of getting laid. “I'll go get Kimmy.”
It was silly, really, but no one wanted to get into too big a group. Jeff had seen it before. Big groups meant big talking, and nobody partied in the waiting room of the OR. So Jeff was on his way over to talk to Kimmy, passing in front of Martin again to get to her, when suddenly Mikhail broke away from his little group of three.
“Go on, cow-woman. Ask Amy for her emergency sock. Like that woman would deny you anything.”
Jeff had to laugh. “Are the fiber few that predictable?” he asked, trying to entertain.
“Shut up, Jeff. You look like hell.”
“Fuck you too,” Jeff replied, annoyed.
Mikhail scowled at him. “Martin, why are you not at The Pulpit, or Promise House? It is happier there.”
Martin looked up and rolled his eyes. “It's like you're trying to get rid of me or something. Man, can't I just be here for Jeff?”
Jeff looked at him, pinching the bridge of his nose. That wasn't the answer Martin had given
him.
But it was… oh God. It was everything.
“I'm so grateful,” he said, his voice, which he'd tried to keep light and comforting, suddenly breaking.
Martin shrugged. “Like I said. No worries.”
Mikhail shook his head and shuddered. “Martin, I hate hospitals. Last year, my mother was dying, it felt like I lived here. And when she was no longer coming for chemo, my big, stupid cop—he decided to try dying once or twice, and generally, the charm is gone for me. I think you and me, we should go outside and get a football or a Frisbee or something, what do you think?”
“I think you're trying to get me out of the way so Shane can talk to Jeff and do that super-mojo counseling thing he's so good at.”
Mikhail smiled. “You are very smart, much smarter than I was at your age, you know that?”
“Mikhail, it's one in the morning, and this neighborhood ain't that great. How stupid
were
you?”
Mikhail met Jeff's eyes, and Mikhail's gaze was ineffably sad. “You have no idea, you great-hearted boy. But let us go. If we are lucky, we can find ice cream. It is the one good thing about these places, you shall have to trust me.”
“Mikhail!” Jeff said, about to watch two of his diversions walk out the door, Martin's arm slung companionably around the little Russian's shoulders. They looked about as mismatched as two people could be.
“Call your boyfriend, you stupid man!” Mikhail snapped, giving Jeff a decidedly rude salute over his shoulder without even looking back.
“He's right, you know,” Shane said quietly. “Where's Collin?”
Jeff practically jumped, because Shane had moved into his personal space while Mikhail and Martin disappeared around the corner.
“Collin has his own family,” Jeff mumbled. “I was going to call him in the morning and tell him maybe showing up for dessert was out, you know?”
“Bullshit,” Shane said, and his voice was edgy and upset, and Jeff looked at him sharply. Shane looked as bad as everyone said Jeff did.
God, this really
was
family. This really
did
hurt as bad as family could. Jeff was suddenly so very, very cold, he almost severed his tongue with his chattering teeth. “Is not bullshit! Collin
does
have his own family!”
Shane's hand was warm as it covered Jeff's, and for a minute Jeff was tempted to jerk his hand back in so Shane wouldn't notice that it was icy with sweat. “Yeah, but that's not where he wants to be right now,” Shane said softly, and Jeff shook his head and looked away—but he didn't retrieve his hand.
“How in the hell would you know that?” he muttered, trying to get his shock under control. That's what it was—he was going into shock. Suddenly his black fury at Deacon eased—he was going into shock out of sheer emotional overload, and he kept trying to deny it. Maybe Deacon had done the same thing with the heart attack—he'd kept thinking,
I'm smarter than this. This can't be happening to me.
“Because if Mickey hadn't let me be there when his mom was sick, it would have felt like a kick in the balls.”
“But he broke up with you after she died!” Jeff protested. He wasn't delusional; he remembered that part!
“So I would know,” Shane replied with gentle humor, and Jeff's tremors eased. How did he do that? God, he was such a great big solid mound of muscle and quiet strength, how did he just soothe people's nerves with that sweet smile of his?
“It was one night,” Jeff said, and the smile disappeared.
“Man, Jeff—you're something else, you know that? The sarcasm, I get. Full-voltage gay, that's who you are. But all of that—the spiffy clothes, the trill in the voice, gestures—and not once did I figure you for a coward. My bad. Next time, I'll have a better idea who I'm dealing with.”
“Tough words for someone who's still holding my hand,” Jeff shot back, mostly because it was true.
“That's because I don't believe them,” Shane said softly. “C'mere, Jeffy.” He extended an arm and tucked Jeff underneath it as if he were a baby bird. “I'm not the guy you need, but I'll do until you call him. Now call him.”
Somehow, Shane had managed to pick his pocket when Jeff wasn't paying attention, but Shane's body was warm and comforting and almost sexless, and Jeff wasn't going to give him shit and risk having that comfort removed. Jeff sighed. Shane wasn't his. They'd never make it— ever, even a little—as a couple. Shane might as well be a big, burly woman as far as that went. If Jeff was willing to take this sort of comfort from Shane, who had Mikhail to go home to, maybe that meant the big, hairy man-mountain was right. Maybe it was time he let himself need.
Jeff felt his own cell phone being pressed into his hand, and he sighed, sort of longing for the old days, when you weren't allowed to use the damned things.
He hit Collin's number, listed under “Sparky,” and listened through the message.
“Uhm, Sparky? Yeah, uhm, Deacon's sort of in the hospital, so, uhm, probably no dessert at The Pulpit tomorrow. Uhm….” Shane squeezed his shoulders and Jeff closed his eyes. “I'm at Davis Med Center, and I don't know how long this is going to be, because they've got to stabilize him and then they're going to operate, and, well. I know you've got plans tomorrow, but, I don't know. If you feel like—”
Beeeeeeeeeeeep.
“Fuck.”
“It's all good, Jeff. I think he gets the picture.” Shane chuckled warmly, and Jeff burrowed into his friend's comfort without shame.
“You're a really good friend, Shane,” he said, with simple faith.