CARTER'S SHADOW
Chapter 30 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
They had made it through most of the nurse stations and security.
Will had simply tightened his tie and walked with a determined purpose, carefully
instructing Peter to keep his head down and to not look at anyone.
Experience had taught Will that in order to not be questioned,
you had to look like you belonged. Walk with a determined stride, like you
are on your way to get somewhere. Don't stop, don't look lost. Whenever a
security guard or a nurse looked at him, he would offer them a tight nod and
not miss a step. He wasn't challenged once.
When they made it into West's ward, Peter looked at Will in
surprise. "How did you do that?" he asked.
Will shrugged. "I'm English," he smiled, "and
the traditional Christmas day James Bond movie marathon." He glanced
about him, getting his bearings and trying to remember which room West was
in.
"You like James Bond?' Peter smirked.
"Hell, I am James Bond," Will murmured absently, spotting
the familiar waiting room and counting the doors. "That one," he
pointed.
Peter crossed to the door and hesitated, glancing back at Will.
"You're not coming with me?" he asked nervously.
"Someone has to distract the nurses," Will said with
a smile as he shot his cuffs. "Besides, you don't need me in there."
Peter took a deep, steadying breath as he reached out to touch
the door handle. He realized that he was nervous, and he looked back at Will
for support.
"Go on then," Will hissed, leaning back against a
wall and crossing his arms, keeping his eyes peeled.
Peter swallowed, and slipped into the room.
"Someone's got a visitor," Mel nudged West awake.
Peter gaped at her laying fully clothed on the bed next to West,
Jeopardy playing on the television. He felt his shyness immediately returning
and he turned to go again.
"Hey," West croaked, opening an eye weakly.
"I'll leave you two talk," Mel decided, "I could
use a coffee." She adjusted her skirts and left the room, stopping to
wink at Peter as she went.
Peter looked quietly at West lying there, bruised and battered.
He looked pale as death--his eye was swollen and the stitches on his forehead
stood out starkly. Peter felt a lump climbing up his throat. Here was a guy
who he had yelled at, fought with, kissed, lying in a hospital bed, hurt.
And all Peter could do was stand there and stare.
"Hey," West lifted a hand painfully, gesturing Peter
to come closer, "come here..."
Peter swallowed again, trying to keep a check on his emotions;
he didn't want to bawl like a baby, he wasn't going to let himself get emotional.
He couldn't... he stepped up to the side of the bed, his lip quivering as
he stared at West with moist eyes, large round saucers that were filled with
emotion.
West's hand snaked to grab Peter's causing Peter to leap backwards
in surprise clutching his chest, as West grinned at him from the bed. "Gotcha!"
he said with his usual smile.
"You asshole!" Peter accused, trying to stand up;
but his feet were caught in the legs of a chair and he stumbled, coming back
up and knocking an IV to one side, which caused Peter to spin and catch it.
Holding onto it for good measure he composed himself.
West was chuckling at him, "You came to see me."
"I'm starting to wish I hadn't," Peter grumbled crossly.
"Do you have to be a total prick all the time?"
West grinned as he settled back into his pillows, "Hey,
Freckles, it's good to see you."
"Freckles?" Peter blinked. "Do they have you
on some kind of medication or something, 'cause I can go..."
West rolled his eyes. "Would you just relax for five minutes?"
he asked with a smirk. "You're too high strung. It's what I like about
you."
"High strung?" Peter crossed his arms. "I'm not
the one scaring the crap out of people just to get a.... you like me?"
His eyes went wide and his voice took on an almost childlike tone.
West chuckled. "I've only been talking about you nonstop
to Mel for the last god knows how long," West winced a bit from his sore
ribs, as he adjusted himself to sit upright, "and... well, you came."
He grinned again, "Freckles..."
Peter stared at West suspiciously. "Why do you keep calling
me that?" he asked, shaking his head again and focusing. "You like
me?" he screwed up his nose. "Me... short scrawny... annoying...
me?"
West shrugged. "I guess I'm a glutton for punishment,"
he admitted. "Yeah, I like short, scrawny, and annoying, you." He
smiled and held up a finger, "You forgot stubborn." He held up another
finger, "Opinionated," and another, "argumentative..."
"Okay, stop," Peter said, shaking his head, his perfectly
combed silky blond hair moving a fraction of a second after his head did as
he shook it from side to side. "I only came 'cause... 'cause..."
"You like me too," West grinned, folding his hands
on the white sheet. "And hey, least I know it's not my looks you're after,"
he said, glancing at his reflection in a monitor beside his bed.
"It's certainly not your personality," Peter bit back
grumpily.
"So why did you come?" West asked curiously.
"I..." Peter shrugged lamely.
"And you're in solid colours," West said, nodding
to the dark shirt Peter was wearing.
"I...had to change," Peter tried to lie.
"Uh-huh," West laughed. "I think you were worried
about me."
"I was not!" Peter denied. "I hate you, remember?"
"Mmm," West shifted in his bed, "that's right,
I forgot." His grey eyes sparkled in amusement.
"What happened?" Peter asked, coming to the edge of
the bed and hesitantly sitting down.
West shook his head. "A small disagreement with an old
friend," he murmured. "I'm pressing charges."
"Good!" Peter nodded, "they should get locked
up."
West shrugged, "I don't know if they're going to get locked
up, but hey, the police will sort it out, it's their job." He gave Peter
a long look up and down taking in the crisp clean shirt, the ironed pleats
in the trousers. Peter would be a knockout in a suit and tie, devastating
in the way only a blond-haired blue-eyed young man could be. Pale milky white
skin, neatly combed hair hanging like curtains around his eyes, allowing Peter
to hide behind them if he wanted to. Not to mention the freckles, which were
accented every time Peter blushed.
"What?" Peter asked self-consciously.
"Just thinking," West said absently.
"'bout what?" Peter glanced over at West.
"Nothing," West replied, shifting a little to ease
the pressure on his ribs as the door cracked open and Mel poked her head around
the door.
"You two done kissing?" she asked. "Or do I get
to sit through a show?"
"We're not kissing," Peter stood up quickly, shaking
his head in denial.
"Repression leads to constipation," Mel remarked,
walking back into the room and setting her cup of coffee down on the tray
table. "When are you going to give up the 'I hate him' act and get on
with it?"
West held up a hand. "Leave him alone," he said with
a shake of his head.
"I don't know what he's been telling you," Peter jerked
a thumb at West, "but we're not... I'm not... it's not..."
"Uh-huh," Mel said nodding sagely, "you keep
telling yourself that, Peter."
Peter shook his head and stalked from the room, seething.
Mel glanced at West, "Yep, he has it bad."
West looked up at her, "So do I."
"Oh, that's obvious," she said, stretching out on
the bed again, "but he's a total closet case."
"Much experience there?" West grinned.
"Yeah," Mel replied. "My cousin's this big one--bible
studies, has a girlfriend he's never touched. He says homosexuality is evil
and the like, even though he gave head to like half the guys at his congregation..."
"That's just gross," West observed.
"What, the fact he gave head to hicks, or the fact that
he did that many?" Mel smirked. "I've done half the hockey team...
does that make me gross?"
"A bit," West continued to grin.
"Just remember," she said, slipping her hand down
under the top of the hospital sheet, raking her nails up West's treasure trail,
staying just above the waist line, "you're at my mercy."
West looked down and up at her. "That's not going to work,"
he chuckled.
"That's a challenge," Mel grinned, her nails going
down further.
"Nope, more like fact," West shrugged. "Not even
a twitch, sorry."
"Yeah, I bet if I was short and looked like a choir boy,
you'd be all over me," Mel grinned, pulling her hand back out of the
sheet. "The question is, getting said 'choir boy' out of the closet."
West arched an eyebrow. "Don't do anything to hurt him,"
he warned.
"Little over protective, I see," Mel smirked again.
"All right, Wesley Theodore Harding, I bet you..." she thought a
moment, "I bet you one Dairy Queen sundae that I can get Peter to ask
you out for the Prom."
West laughed, "I see, and what makes you so sure you can
get Peter to do that?"
Mel made a face, "Don't you want to go to the Ball with
your little prince?"
West licked his lips, "Right, you see, now I am just worried
about what you're going to do."
""Well, you just lay there and worry while I go and
put my master plan in motion," Mel said patting his bare chest, "and
then you'll have to make me the Dairy Queen."
* * *
Peter had been unusually quiet in the car ride back home, and
Will had just left him be. He dropped Peter off at his home before driving
the rest of the way round to his own house. He yawned when he glanced at the
time and realized it was still fairly early; he had enough time to get the
damned attrition report done before he went to bed.
He walked into the house and frowned, it was dark save for a
flickering light coming from the living room. Will craned his neck around
glancing into the living room where a single candle burned on the coffee table.
There was no movement, and Will shook his head--Brody probably
setting the mood for yet another of his inevitable conquests. Will dropped
his coat on a chair and walked through to blow out the candle, pausing when
he caught a glimpse of the sock on the stairs.
He heaved another sigh and walked over to pick it up; if it
wasn't bad enough he'd been running around like a mad hatter all day, he now
had to play maid at home for Brody's dirty laundry. He walked up the stairs
and picked up a second sock.
The pants hanging over the banister made Will roll his eyes
as he grabbed those as well, climbing the stairs to the top landing where
he picked up a shirt just outside his door. A distinctive hockey jersey...
Andrew's...
Will pushed open the door to his room where Andrew lay asleep
on the bed, a couple of candles burning down, a book tucked into the crook
of his arm and his glasses askew. Will cocked his head to the side and smiled.
"Hey," Andrew said, stirring and opening an eye, "what
time is it?"
"Nine thirty," Will replied. popping Andrew's clothes
on the chair. "You made quite the mess."
"I was trying to set a trail for you to follow," Andrew
chuckled.
"Well, you're lucky I found it and not Brody--now that
could have been awkward to explain.
"Brody's out of town," Andrew said sleepily. "Something
about work and he has to jet back to California; we have the house to ourselves."
"What's this--you and me, home at the same time... and
no one walking in on us?" Will chuckled as he set his briefcase down
and stretched out on the bed next to his boyfriend.
"Mmm," Andrew murmured, shifting to rest his head
on Will's chest, pulling him close.
"And all you can think of to do is sleep," Will chuckled.
Andrew tiredly moved his hand up Will's shirt to pull his tie
open, and fumble with the buttons. He pulled them open, as he leaned up to
check he was doing it right before his head flopped back down.
Will shook his head fondly, as he shifted and leaned down to
kiss Andrew lightly, "Don't worry about it, just sleep."
"I love you..." Andrew murmured.
"I know," Will said, his fingers stroking Andrew's
cheek as they lay there, both utterly exhausted by life.
* * *
Andrew woke first--he always did, a condition of growing up
in rural Ontario. And he climbed slowly out of bed, looking down at Will sleeping,
as he always did on the right side of the bed facing inwards. His hand rested
on Andrew's side, even in his sleep reaching out for the intimacy they shared.
He looked so peaceful laying there, never snoring just breathing
shallowly as he slept wrapped up in the plain beige blanket. His clothes from
the night before were neatly folded on the chair beside the bed. His brown
hair caught the first rays of sunlight from the window, highlighting the faint
auburn in it.
Andrew just stood there over the bed and watched Will sleep,
totally at peace and so much like the young man he had been when they had
been Peter's age. There were a few more lines. And it was true, men grew more
distinguished with time. Will was closing on his mid-twenties now. He wasn't
the most athletic of men, that was true, but he was still thin.
Thin and soft... Andrew smiled...supple...
Keenly intelligent, Will could outthink most situations he ran
across, and he had a knack for making other people see his ideas. In another
life, maybe he would make a great politician, or a teacher... Whatever he
wanted.
Why was he so adamant on working in the call centre? Andrew
sometimes couldn't even pretend to fathom the workings of Will's mind. It
seemed Will got an idea into his head, and doggedly pursued it to whatever
end it took him to.
A stubborn, arrogant man at times, at others blindly naive and
innocent.
Will flinched a little in his sleep, curling a little tighter
in upon himself. Andrew knew 'that' dream, Will's own personal history still
haunting him. And Andrew wished there was something he could do to ease it.
Old instincts never seemed to go away, and as far as their lives seemed to
drift, they were still bound by what they had shared together. And Andrew
knelt down beside the bed, touching Will's hand lightly.
The presence caused Will to relax, a light smile playing across
his lips as his dreams eased. Andrew stood up gathering his clothes; Will
would wake up in a few minutes, as the usual house invasions would begin,
and Andrew wanted to get the coffee pot started.
He walked to the door and turned, looking back at where Will
still slept soundly. Still a beautiful man to him. Growing into his own, dealing
with life as it came at him. Will was a survivor; Andrew's mother had pointed
that out when she had first met him. As fiery and independent as they came,
and Andrew knew that was part of what he loved about him. That Will chose
his own course, never bending or breaking.
He was downstairs when Peter entered for his usual morning ride
to school. Andrew smiled at Will's sprog as they passed each other--Peter
heading for the gaming console, Andrew for the kitchen.
Life wound inevitably onwards; he had an exam to write that
day, before he went back to the high school to figure out what Thorburn's
strategy was now he'd lost an entire line of the team as well as the team
captain.
"Morning," Lisa intoned musically as she walked in,
holding up a box of doughnuts and some Tim Horton's coffee, "Will up
yet?"
"Not yet," Andrew said, gratefully taking one of the
cups, checking to make sure it was tea and sitting down at the breakfast island.
"He's up, he's up..." Will grumbled, shuffling into
the kitchen doing up a clean shirt, his hair still sticking straight up from
sleep.
