by Anyta Sunday
"Yeah."
"Good."
The smile on Paul's face as his lids fluttered shut tugged at Karl. That was his smile. What he'd been waiting for. Karl twisted onto his back but kept his head turned to Paul. Had this been the best or the worst Christmas of his life? Both, somehow.
Within minutes, Paul's snores filled up the silence of the room. At least the heaviness of it was regular. Something he could get used to? Did he want to get used to it? No, it was loud and obnoxious. Just the thought made him cranky. But . . . maybe. He watched the blankets as they rose and fell with Paul. How his bottom lip jutted slightly open. How he mumbled occasionally . . . Karl leaned over and kissed his forehead, wishing him pleasant dreams.
He vacated the bed, but as he reached the bathroom door, turned back. It didn't feel right leaving him here, alone.
Because . . . Karl frowned. Well, he'd had a concussion today; he should stay to keep an eye on him. And what if he needed his pain meds in the night? It'd be much easier for him to grab them than Paul. Yes, he should stay.
Karl padded back to the bed, but still couldn't bring himself to slide in. He just wasn't tired. Actually, he was, but just so tired he was beyond sleep.
He veered toward the crack in the curtains and widened it. Glanced out the window onto the road. A red car drove by. Sleek, like his Lamborghini. Was.
Karl shot a glance to Paul. Tucked up. Safe. That was all that mattered. Really.
His stomach flipped; Karl huddled onto the floor, hugging his knees, and watched the city. Really, really. That was all that mattered. For a second time that night, he tongued his tooth. Shivered. Pop would have said the same thing. Would have agreed.
He rested his forehead on his cold knees, liking the pressure on his full head. Disliking the mix of feelings in his gut—the part that grieved for his baby. He banged his head against his knees at his next thought: Had it been a bad idea to give Paul the key?
How could he possibly think that? It was an accident. He shouldn't care about a car. He didn't.
Really.
A dull glow hovered in the sky. Close to dawn already? He scanned the room for a clock. The strap of Paul's watch winked at him from behind a glass of water. Four o'clock. He very much doubted he'd get to sleep before Charlie woke . . . He'd better try though, Paul needed his bed-rest; Karl was on kid duty. He gently put down the watch, remembering one of their first real conversations. Paul wanted to be buried in it. Would he ever let go of Laura completely? Was it unreasonable to wish he would?
Why couldn't he just stop thinking, stop imagining all the ways that he and Paul could go wrong? Why was he so very, very afraid that they would?
He held his breath and slipped into bed behind Paul. Whispered, to himself, to Paul, to the world, "I don't want us to waste an opportunity, either."
16
Let me?
KARL JERKED OUT of a pleasantly warm dream. Paul lay curled into him, and Karl found himself mindlessly grinding. And, although still asleep, Paul wriggled in response.
A leg flung over his, Paul's toes stretched down Karl's calf, his backside jamming harder up against Karl's groin. Karl shifted slightly away, but Paul inched closer. The game continued, fast shrinking his side of the bed. Paul sighed in his sleep, shuffling again, and Karl rested a firm hand on his hips. It just didn't feel right this way. Well, it did feel pretty good, but . . . Paul was still asleep. Didn't know what he wanted.
Karl's leg rested between Paul's, and he carefully extracted it. A mumble came from the guy as air rushed in to take his place and he slipped out from between the sheets.
It really didn't take him long to sort himself out in the bathroom. Only, once he was done, he was left with an awkward choice. Did he go back to Paul's bed? Cuddle some more like he really wanted to? Or slink back to his room, in case Charlie charged in?
Humming over it, Karl looked at his reflection. Awful. He looked like shit. Lifting an arm, he sniffed himself. Didn't smell so great either. Maybe he’d just shower and get up. That would save the 'where to' dilemma.
Toweling up after a much longer shower than usual, Karl went into his room for clothes. He pulled on some slacks, then fished in his drawer for a T-shirt. He stopped, clutching a light green one. Yeah, that's what he'd wear. With a bounce in his step, he rushed back through the bathroom to Paul's room.
Only to hesitate at the edge of the bed. He really did want Paul to wake up with him there. Charlie's shout down the hall reminded him why he shouldn't. Karl forced himself to the door. There'd be more days for that. He halted. Just the thought sent a buzz through him. Quickly, he twisted the lock, turned, and climbed onto the bed. Pecked Paul's forehead, the tip of his nose—softly, not to wake him. But oh God, he wanted to smother him in kisses.
The handle jiggled. Stopped. Footsteps. In two bounds, Karl unlocked, then darted to his room just in time for a bang at his door and Charlie calling his name.
"What's up, buddy?" Karl suppressed a smile seeing the boy had dressed himself, the top inside-out.
Charlie gave a sophisticated little sigh. "Papa's door won't open. Want to see he's okay?" His voice rose at the end, changing the statement to a question.
"I'm sure he's fine. He needs his sleep though, so how about we make breakfast together. Once we're done we can bring him a tray. Do you think he'd like that?"
"Pancakes?"
The hope in Charlie's voice had Karl chuckling inside. "Sure thing. And an omelet with a butt-load of mushrooms in it."
Charlie giggled. "And a butt-load of tomatoes?"
Crap, four-year-old-sponge head. "Um, truckload, Charlie. That's the phrase."
He frowned, eying Paul suspiciously. "Not what I heard."
"I said it wrong. But come on; let's go make an omelet with a truckload of tomatoes in it."
"And a truckload of cookies?"
Ugh. Kids said the weirdest things. "Cookies? In the omelet? I don't know your papa would like that."
"Oh. Then maybe in the pancakes?"
Karl shook his head. "Up and off to the kitchen then. We'll prepare a feast." He was pretty sure there was bacon in the fridge that would be perfect fried with maple syrup until crispy. Hopefully the smell would coax Paul awake—
Karl froze, staring at the kitchen. The knife left precariously on the edge of the counter, bits of Portobello mushroom and walnuts spotted the countertop, flour dusted the cupboard doors and floor. The oven still sat partially opened, the pie in it.
The sight hurtled back in stunning clarity the events of the last night. Karl took a sharp breath and rested against the counter, his elbow smudging the flour. He picked up the knife, staring at its tip. It just as easily could've fallen the other way. Paul could've . . . he swallowed the thought—it brought that bubbling feeling back, only laced with panic.
Charlie tugged on his T-shirt. "Could we put some chocolate chips in the pancakes?"
Karl feebly nodded, glad for the interruption to his thoughts.
On automatic, he scrubbed the kitchen, giving Charlie the task of sweeping, which, strangely enough, the boy was into. With clean surfaces, Karl relaxed. Together, he and the boy made a batch of chocolate chip pancakes, caramelized banana, and bacon. Karl showed Charlie how to whip up the omelet mixture.
"Is that what makes it taste scrumicious?"
"Not only. If you make food with love, it's bound to come out tasting scrumptious."
Charlie imitated Karl's instructions with the whisk. "I'll put a truckload of love in here, then, so Papa likes it."
A laugh tickled his throat. "Your papa will definitely like that."
With Karl helping him, Charlie balanced a tray of breakfast. "We should knock first, okay? Keep holding it even." Karl rapped on the door.
A stirring came from the other side and a ‘yeah’? Good enough. He opened the door for Charlie to go in. Paul rose awkwardly, until his back was against the wall. "Wow, is that all for me?"
As he ohh-ed and ahhh-ed over what Charlie had made him, Ka
rl grabbed a pillow, nudging Paul to move, and placed it behind him.
"Before I eat this wonderful breakfast," Paul said, voice still croaky from waking up. "I'm going to need to visit the bathroom. Look after the tray for me, Charlie?"
Paul staggered to his feet, and Charlie's eyes widened when he saw the red mark across his chest. "Papa! Does that hurt?" The concern in his high-pitched question was palpable.
Paul gave him a small smile. His gaze fell to the tablets at the side of his bed. "I'm fine, this will go away soon."
Charlie didn't look like he believed him. Karl jumped onto the bed next to the boy. "You know what's really cool?"
"What?"
"You get to write your name or draw a picture on your papa's cast." He flashed a glance to Paul, heading toward the door to the hall. "Where do you think you're going?" He shook his head as Paul met his gaze with a confused expression. Karl thumbed toward the bathroom. "Use that one."
"But it's yours."
God, sometimes he wanted to kiss and shake the guy. At once. This was both sweet and hell annoying. "Use the bathroom. I don't need my own personal one. I've always been happy to share. Besides, you're meant to be on bed rest for a couple of days, this saves you from traipsing to the other end of the apartment each time you need to piss."
Charlie giggled. Paul glanced at the boy and back at Karl.
What? He shouldn't say piss?
Paul nodded, shut the door, and shuffled to the closer bathroom.
"I need my pens," Charlie said suddenly. Huh? "I'm going to draw a shark on papa's arm." Oh right. Karl clambered off the bed and grabbed some colored pens, entering the room the same time as Paul came out from the bathroom.
Their gazes clashed briefly. Paul's large gray eyes smiling into his brown, maybe green, ones. A staggering wave of electricity ran through him. It took an effort to continue to the bed.
Paul attempted eating left-handed and groaned. "This is impossible."
Circling to his plate, Karl cut things up into tiny bite-sized portions. "Now all you have to do is stab. Better?"
Paul reddened. "Yeah. But I'm NOT having you cut up all my meals for the next four weeks."
Charlie hummed his 'fishes' song as he drew a large shark—or what he knew was meant to be one—on the bottom of Paul's cast. Karl came around for a better look. Was that a fin, or a tooth?
"Nice."
"You should draw something, too." Charlie handed him a red pen.
Uncapping it, Karl tried to come up with something he could draw. Silly, but the only thing he could think about, looking at the red color, was a heart. Or a flower. Simple enough to draw, sure, but damn he was a guy. Should think up something more guy-like. Um . . . The tip touched the white cast. He sketched half the outline of a car, before coming to a viscous halt. Paul might read something into that. Like he was upset about his Lamborghini. Or . . . God, he didn't need to be reminded of the accident every time he looked at his arm. Stupid. He quickly curved a tire and rounded the square hood into petals and attached a stem. Flower it was.
When Paul looked at it, the side of his lips twitched. He raised an amused brow. "Uh-huh." To Charlie he fussed a little more. Geez, at least Paul could tell what his was! But Karl smiled. He liked the way Paul teased him, only it led to him really wanting to kiss his appreciation . . . And some.
The house phone rang. "I'll grab it," Karl said, scrabbling off the bed. He caught it on the sixth ring. "Hello?"
"This is Sue speaking. I'd like to talk to Paul, please."
"Sure thing. I'll just take you to his bedroom."
"You'll do what? It's ten-thirty, is he still in bed?"
"Doctor's orders." It slipped out of him before he could think whether or not telling Sue was a good idea. Or even if Paul would have wanted that.
A panic rose in the pitch of Sue's voice. "Doctor's—what happened?"
Now that he'd slipped, he couldn't not tell her. Karl gave a brief account of the small accident, trying to leave out the panic he'd felt hearing Paul was in hospital.
"We'll drive down tonight and take Charlie for the next couple of days."
Karl stilled at the insistence in her voice. No, more than insistence, it came over as an order. And honestly, he hated being told what would happen. He was doing an okay job handling this, wasn't he? Besides, Paul didn't feel he had enough time with Charlie as it was. With him on bed rest, the two could still bond, play games and stuff. Also, he sorta liked Charlie helping him make his papa feel better. They were a team.
Karl paused in the hall, turning his back toward Paul's room. "That's lovely of you to offer, Sue, but I think we're fine." We're fine? Wait, did that sound too—Karl quickly righted his possible slip. "I'll look after Charlie, it's my job after all."
A small sniff came from behind him. He spun to see Charlie holding Paul's emptied tray, a pout jutting his lower lip. The tray began to shake.
"Sue, Paul will call you back." He disconnected and sunk to the floor, taking the tray and laying it on the ground. Anxiousness curled in his gut.
He opened his arms. "Hey, Charlie, come here."
The boy shook his head. A little tear plummeted down the side of his soft, rosy cheek.
"Hey, hey." He grabbed Charlie onto his lap. "Hey, what's wrong?"
"N-n-nothing."
Karl scooped a tear onto his finger. "This isn't nothing."
"Thought we were friends."
"What? We are!"
"Why'd you say I was a, was a job."
Please let the earth eat him up. He squished the tear between two fingers. That was because of him. Why'd he have to say it like that?
He petted Charlie's head. Such a sensitive boy. "I'm sorry, Charlie. That came out wrong. I meant that it's my job to help your papa out, but I really like to. I care a lot for you. You are the best, ever. We're buddies, right?"
Charlie looked at him from the corner of his eye, then nuzzled into his arms. "Good."
"Right. Well, let's clean this up and get back to your papa."
The boy moved off him, then met his gaze. "You care about papa, too?"
Karl dipped his head. Smiled at the breakfast tray. "Yeah, I do. I really do."
"Good."
He bit his lip at that. Could've dwelled in the sensation that rose in him at that simple word. Warm and nervous. But a good kind of nervous.
"Karly?"
"Hmmm?"
"Do the fractions in Papa’s arm hurt a lot?"
Karl chuckled, but the doorbell ringing stopped him from answering. Charlie leaped over the tray and charged to the door. Karl followed, depositing the tray on his way.
Gillian pushed into the apartment, crouching to say a quick hello to Charlie. When she stood, she met Karl’s eyes with a steady gaze. "How's he doing?"
"Fine." Considering how he'd acted hung-over, he'd been surprised at the lack of groaning. Not that he would have minded. And he was taking his meds regularly.
Gillian held out a bouquet of flowers. "I brought these," she shrugged, "because, you know, they're like the most helpful thing ever."
Charlie poked his side and asked to watch some TV.
"Um, half an hour, okay?" Why did he feel guilty okaying that? Because the reason he'd turned Sue down was for the boy to spend more time with Paul. Not sit in front of the plasma screen. And, oh man, what even gave him the right to turn her down without talking to Paul? Like he thought he actually had a say when it came to Charlie.
He didn't. Had to remember that. That he was just a Girl Friday.
Then he stared down at the bouquet. It reminded him of the flower he'd drawn on Paul's cast. And the subsequent teasing. Damn, his emotions were a mess. It did his digestion no favors either.
" . . . Karl?"
"Sorry?"
Gillian nodded and maneuvered to the cupboards, soon pulling out a vase. Filling it up with water, she eyed him. "You look tired. If you like, you can go rest. I can play nurse for a bit?"
"Nah, thanks, but I don't
think I could fall asleep. I'll keep going and crash tonight, instead."
Gillian tested the water with her pinky and added more from the warm faucet. She stared at him, a slight frown creasing her brow. She opened her mouth to say something, but shut it again with a small shake of her head. As if, inside, she berated herself for what she was about to say.
What was she about to say?
She extracted the flowers from his tight fist, made quick work of trimming the ends, and eased them into the vase. Coming around the corner, she nudged him with an elbow and winked. "Come on, let's see him, then."
Karl shook off his wayward spiraling nonsensical thoughts and followed. In the bedroom, Paul sat fumbling with his pill container. He dropped them and looked up. "Gill!" He grabbed the comforter, awkwardly pulling it up over his chest. "I wasn't expecting company."
Narrowed eyes met his—not totally upset, if he read them correctly, he could almost hear Paul's cheeky voice: Some warning would've been nice. Uh—oops. Being tired made him thoughtless.
Gillian rolled her eyes. "No need to be modest on my part. I'm not like the girls you date—there'll certainly be no drooling." She wiped her mouth on her shoulder and added with a grin, "At least, I hope not."
"Haw-haw," Paul said. "How'd you get here, anyway?"
Gillian planted the vase next to his bed and said in a cool voice that a small shiver belied, "Oh, just caught a cab." And then in a quieter voice, "Like I wish I'd done last night."
Paul glared at her. "Gill, stop that sort of thinking pronto. None of this is your fault."
Karl added silently: Not yours either, Paul.
Holding out his pill bottle, he said, "Would someone mind . . .? The pain is making me grumpy."
After knocking back some pills, Paul relaxed, listening to Gillian chatter about this, that and beyond. Karl settled himself next to her at the end of the bed. It was a conscious effort not to let his gaze wander and study every curve and contour of Paul's body under the thin comforter. In the end, he honed in on the slight silver threading in the pillowcase poking out from behind his neck.
Gillian stood up and pulled out her cell. "Tirone's also worried. I promised to give him a ring as soon as I had an update. He'll want to talk to you." Fingers flew over buttons.