Cause and Effect

by Brooke Edwards

  “’re you calling me fat?” Daniel says, words slurring at the edges. Shock’s a bitch, but Peter’s relieved that he’s showing more signs of life. He’s gradually getting lighter against Peter’s arm, supporting more of his own weight.

  “More to the point, the fact that I have noodles for arms.” They make it to the doors and Peter leans into Daniel to get out of the way of the door’s edge.

  “You’ve got potential,” Cohen says from ahead. “Some quality time in the gym and you’d surprise yourself.”

  Peter snorts but isn’t sure what the sound Daniel makes is supposed to mean, and they’re at the car before he has a chance to mull it over any further. Opening the door and using the excuse to put his arm around Daniel’s shoulders, Peter helps him into the back seat. “How does it feel to be on the other side of that?”

  “Not my first time in the back,” Daniel says. It comes out clearer this time, his breath puffing out against the side of Peter’s face. The words themselves aren’t as suggestive as their proximity, which is what Peter will blame for the shiver that runs down his spine. He slams the door shut and takes a step toward the passenger door. It would be weird to leave Daniel in the back seat on his own, right? He bites his bottom lip, reaching for the door handle. It would be just as weird, if not weirder, to leave Cohen in the front seat. Like some kind of chauffeur or a cab driver or something. It isn’t like he can sit in the back and sidle on up to the middle seat to stay pressed against Daniel’s side.

  He yanks open the passenger door, feet suddenly unsteady, and doesn’t even bother trying to make the stumble into the seat look like anything but.

  “Belt,” Cohen says. His hands are perfectly placed at ten and two on the wheel, and he looks at Peter out of the corner of his eye.

  Peter pulls the seat belt down across his body and clicks it into place, twisting around to make sure Daniel is buckled in too. Sitting down has obviously taken whatever wind was left in Daniel’s sails, because he’s slumped back against the seat. The belt is fastened, though, pulled tight across his chest. Peter forces a smile onto his face, not letting the lack of a response discourage him. “We’re good to go.”

  The radio plays softly in the background, and Cohen doesn’t put the sirens on but they stick out like a sore thumb anyway. It keeps the horn-blaring around them down noticeably. They’re barely a few minutes from the hospital when Peter glances into the back seat and sees Daniel’s eyes are closed, his head listing against the window and his hand curled loosely around the seat belt.

  “Out like a light,” he says, turning back to face the road again. Cohen hums in agreement, hands still at ten and two. Peter lowers his voice. “Was Derek really doing better after we left? I had to convince Daniel we were better off staying down there a couple of times.”

  “He was still in a lot of pain,” Cohen says, his voice dropping too. “But they gave him some painkillers to take with him, and told B—James exactly what he could and couldn’t do for the next couple of weeks. I came down to make sure you guys were okay a couple of times, then went back up. I asked Lara if I should bring you back up there, but she said it was probably best if they both cooled off. Separately.”

  “I think they’ve been friends a long time.” Peter looks down at his hands, cold anxiety spidering out from his tangled fingers. “Was probably a doozy of a fight.”

  “Daniel’s right,” Cohen says immediately. He looks up into the rearview mirror after he says it, before his eyes focus back on the road. “The city isn’t safe for him anymore, and it doesn’t matter what he wants to do, not when his life is on the line like that.”

  “Guess they’re just as stubborn as each other.” Peter closes his eyes against the memory of Daniel’s devastated eyes and pale face when he’d rushed into the hospital room, and the pained desperation in Derek’s as he’d gasped for breaths around hacking coughs.

  Peter and Cohen fall into silence for the rest of the drive, and Peter is startled when Cohen pulls the cruiser to a stop outside of his apartment building. Daniel stirs in the back seat with a sharp intake of breath as Peter twists in his seat to look at Cohen. “Shouldn’t we have—”

  “Wha’?” Daniel asks blearily.

  Cohen looks at Peter with furrowed brows. “What?”

  Peter blinks at Cohen, and then turns to blink at Daniel, who still isn’t properly awake. “What,” he repeats, and then nods. “No, this is fine.”

  “I just—I just assumed?” Cohen says, looking between Peter and Daniel.

  “You’re going to have to help me get him upstairs,” Peter says, heart starting to pound uncomfortably hard against his ribs. Déjà vu isn’t the right word, but it’s the closest he’s got to describe the slowly sinking sensation.

  Cohen is out of the car and circling around to Daniel’s door before Peter even manages to untangle himself from the seat belt. He bites at his lower lip again, wrenching the belt away until it starts winding up itself. By the time he stumbles out, catching himself on the edge of a trash can and immediately wishing he’d just fallen over instead, because the stuff on his fingers might be alive, Cohen has Daniel out of the car and on his feet. They’re both looking at Peter with unnervingly similar and offensively dubious expressions. It doesn’t make sense, because Daniel’s eyes are still only half-open, but Peter concentrates on finding his keys in his pocket instead.

  “I can take—” Cohen starts.

  “No!” Peter blurts, hand closing around his keys and pulling them out. “No, no, that’s fine. He shouldn’t be on his own anyway, that’s right for shock too.”

  “’M’not shocked,” Daniel says, as indignant as someone leaning against the side of a car can be. He tries to push off of the car, and makes it an admirable couple of of steps before Cohen grabs his wrist and steers him closer to Peter.

  “You can argue when you’ve slept it off,” Peter says and boldly reaches out to take Daniel’s wrist from Cohen. “Come on. We can send Tia out for pizza in a few hours.”

  Daniel follows him, and Peter doesn’t think about how he’s only allowing the casual contact because his body is struggling to cope with huge amounts of stress and adrenaline. He doesn’t think about it, not even when his fingers tighten around Daniel’s wrist as he leads him through the door and toward the shuddery elevator.

  Tia isn’t in the apartment when he lets them in, dumping his keys on the counter and immediately herding Daniel toward the sofa. He reaches around his waist to unhook the utility belt, shushing Daniel when he protests, and lifts it away. It’s ridiculously heavy, and he lets it fall onto the sofa cushions as he pushes Daniel down into the corner. Cohen finishes clearing the apartment and relocking all the windows. He looks at Peter, mouth twisting and then opening, but closing before he says anything, and just lifting a hand instead as he snags the utility belt with his other hand. “I’ll let whoever takes over know that you’re up here,” he says to Daniel, who is slowly listing to the side. Another minute or two and Peter is sure he’ll be lying flat and probably passed out. “I’ll leave this with them. See you tomorrow, Peter.”

  “Sure, sure,” Peter says, waving him out. He closes the door behind Cohen, ignoring the confused look on the other man’s face, and presses his forehead against the wood. “Breathe,” he reminds himself quietly.

  When he gets back into the living area, Daniel is passed out on the couch with his face half-buried in one of the cushions.

  9

  Sam and Lydia are still sitting in her Prius, parked on the street, when James pulls into the driveway. Derek is dozing in the passenger seat and barely stirs when James cuts the engine. “Hey,” he says, turning in his seat.

  Derek’s eyes flutter open slowly and he shifts, wincing at the movement.

  “We’re home,” James says, pushing his door open. “Just wait there a second, okay? I’ll help you out.”

  His mouth opens, like he wants to protest, but as soon as he reaches for the buckle of his seat belt Derek’s entire body goes
rigid with pain. It punches a gasp out of him, and James slams his door shut, practically vaulting over the front of the car to swing Derek’s door open. He reaches in, his own hands close to shaking, and pulls the belt away.

  “Jesus,” James says, resting his knees against the side of the car and leaning there. “Don’t do that—”

  Derek nods, small and hesitant, and then tips his head back against the seat with an unsteady breath. “Noted.” It comes out barely a whisper.

  James rolls back onto his feet and reaches to push down the lever as he eases Derek’s seat backward. “Come on, swing your legs out for me,” he says, settling a hand against the outside of Derek’s thigh to take some of the strain of turning off of him. “That’s it. Now I’m going to pull, okay? Just from behind your knee until you’re halfway out. Bend your head forward as much as you can.”

  He’s got Derek halfway to his feet when Lydia squeezes between them, her arm going around Derek’s hips and her hair flashing in the late-afternoon sun, almost blinding James.

  “That’s it,” she says, voice soft and gentle, and starts helping him toward the front door. “We’ll leave them to sort out the car, and get you propped up with some pillows, and something hot to drink and something to take the edge off, okay?”

  James blinks at their backs as Sam comes to stop at his side. “You okay, Dad?”

  “Yeah.” James swallows around the lump in his throat. “That was downright maternal, though, has she been bodysnatched?”

  “I know, right?” Sam hisses, nudging against him and making a distressed sound. “Kay called me, and she answered, and we broke so many traffic laws, Dad, you don’t even understand.”

  James snorts, the mental image of Lydia on a rampage in afternoon traffic enough to diffuse some of the strain still holding his muscles hostage. “It’s all right, I’ll call in some favors if you got caught,” he says and puts his arm around Sam’s shoulders, starting up the driveway toward the door too.

  Daniel wakes up with a dry mouth, sore head, and an overwhelming sense of panic. He has no idea where he is, and when he goes to scramble to his feet, he gets tangled in a blanket and ends up on the floor. Knees joining the fray of things that hurt, he rolls onto his back and kicks the blanket free and then lays there for a moment, getting his breath back as dim memories of the day before come rushing back.

  “T—that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.” Tia’s voice shakes, and Daniel cranes his neck back until he can see a glimpse of her beyond the sofa.

  “Why do you hate me?” Daniel asks, slumping back to the floor and staring at the ceiling. She’s like the sister he never wanted. “Did I do something I don’t remember or, like, arrest one of your family members?”

  “It’s more like who you aren’t do—Petey!”

  Daniel jerks upright and immediately regrets it, dizziness taking over. Luckily, the sofa is there to lean against. Peter is standing in the doorway in sweatpants that puddle around his feet and a loose shirt with a collar that gapes against his throat.

  “Are you okay?” Peter asks as soon as his eyes land on Daniel, starting across the room. He’s crouched next to Daniel in the next moment, smelling like soap and warm skin.

  It doesn’t help the dizziness. “I’m fine,” Daniel manages to get out, forcing a smile that must look natural enough because Peter smiles back. He remembers enough of yesterday to know that Peter had spent hours with him, putting food and coffee in front of him until he ate it, and that there was a reason he came to the hospital in the first place. A reason that he’s pretty sure wasn’t Derek.

  “Well, you look a hundred times better,” Peter says, and then his hands are around Daniel’s elbows, hauling him up to his feet with a deceptive strength. “So that’s good at least. Do you feel better? You slept for, like, sixteen hours.”

  “How long?” Panic tightens Daniel’s throat suddenly and he pulls his arm free of Peter’s grip, pulling back his wrinkled sleeve and seeing the time on his watch. Just after eight. “Oh fuck, I’m so late.”

  “Hey wait, it’s okay!” Peter grabs his hands, and Daniel stills immediately, caught off guard by how easily he tangles their fingers together and gets right up in Daniel’s space. “Cohen said everyone knew you’d come in when you were ready. Do you think anyone is going to be there this early?”

  “They better,” Daniel says, blinking and shaking off the surprise. He gives Peter’s fingers a brief squeeze, hoping it conveys his gratitude, before pulling away and patting down his pockets.

  “I put your belt in the microwave,” Tia pipes up. “Close enough to a safe, right?”

  “No, she didn’t!” Peter blurts out as Daniel whirls toward her. “Cohen took it and gave it to Martine when she relieved him! She’ll be downstairs.”

  Daniel glares at her, and she beams back. Peter looks between them with wide eyes.

  “I’ll walk you down,” Peter says, tugging at his loose collar. He reaches out but his hand falls halfway between them and then goes back to his side, clutching at the fabric of his sweats. “You can get your belt and a lift or a cab or something.”

  Daniel shoots one last narrow-eyed look at Tia before following Peter toward the door. As soon as they reach the elevator, his hand shoots out almost without his permission. His fingers close around Peter’s wrist, the hard bump of it pressing against where Daniel’s thumb meets his palm. “I just—thanks,” he says and then swallows, mouth dry. “For yesterday and last night and—just thanks.”

  Peter’s smile is smaller and softer than the ones Daniel’s seen on his face before. His grip tightens, and Peter is suddenly a step closer. Daniel can smell his soap again. “Anytime,” he says, and then the elevator arrives and someone steps out. They step apart, the woman barging straight through them with her head bent over her cell, and the moment is gone.

  Sam hasn’t really left James’s side since he and Lydia had arrived the night before. Lydia hadn’t left the living room for more than a toilet break the entire night, insisting that she was perfectly rested enough to watch over Derek during the night. “The recliner will be much safer for him than a bed,” she’d told James. “You’ll get some rest this way too.”

  Not that James had gotten a lot. He’d made a few calls in the early evening and then tossed and turned for hours. Next thing he knew, the dim light of morning was creeping past the curtains and he’d given up, heading downstairs.

  Derek spent most of the night dropping in and out of the painkiller fog anyway, Lydia tells him the next morning in a quiet whisper while she fiddles with the coffee maker. “Did fine with all the concussion testing too,” she says, pouring two mugs and pushing one toward him and then setting a third empty one by the coffee maker. Sam clatters down the stairs, quietly for him, a few minutes later. Not much is said, which suits James fine. He’s been thinking about more important things than small talk, and the fact that Sam barely says a word around his coffee tells James more than anything how rattled both of them are, too.

  James goes into the darkened living room after Sam and Lydia gang up to make him choke down some buttered toast, crouching down beside the recliner and reaching out to cradle the side of Derek’s face with one hand. “Hey,” he says.

  Derek stirs, leaning into his touch and then startling himself awake with a punched-out breath. James makes a soothing sound, his own heart leaping in his chest, and goes to his knees so he can stretch up and press his lips to Derek’s temple. “Just me,” he murmurs. “I’m heading in for a couple of hours to sort out some stuff, but Lydia is staying with you while I’m gone, okay? There’s an officer parked either side of the house. You’re safe, so just rest.”

  He feels Derek’s nod, the grazed skin under his lips moving, and smiles. “Good. I’ll be back soon.”

  Sam follows him outside, wrestling with his sweater sleeves all the way to the car. James looks over the top of the car at him, raising an eyebrow. Sam raises one back and gets into the passenger side. James sighs and gets in his
own side. “I’m capable of looking after myself,” he says as he starts the car. “I didn’t get hurt, you know that, right?”

  “This is for Derek’s protection,” Sam says, sprawling out and immediately reaching for the radio. “He’s much better off with Lydia than me.”

  James snorts. “I do remember you bringing me a glass of water and some ibuprofen once,” he says, backing out of the driveway. “I ended up wearing the water and never found those ibuprofen.”

  Sam sniffs, concentrating on the radio. “It was the thought that counted.”

  James has barely settled in at his desk, Sam perched across from him, when Daniel strides in. His clothes are wrinkled, and his hair flattened in strange patches.

  “I wanted to apologize again—” he starts.

  “No,” James says. Underneath the worry for Derek, some regret had bubbled away for most of the night about acting like Daniel could have stopped Derek once he’d decided to leave on his own. “Not necessary. I was worried but out of line too. We’re good, Danny.”

  Watching how much tension seeps out of Daniel’s shoulders at those words and the change it makes in his posture just reinforces James’s decision. “We’re both going upstate,” he says. His hands are steady and still, spread out over the files on his desk. “Made some calls last night and sorted it out. I’ve got an old friend in the force up that way who’s got a place we can hole up ‘til Derek’s back on his feet and the worst of this has blown over.”

  Daniel visibly bites back a protest, the tendons in his throat standing out starkly for a second, but then he nods.

  “Should we come with you?” Sam asks. His knee bounces, banging against the desk each time. He doesn’t even flinch, eyes wide and earnest as he looks between James and Daniel. “Like, as backup or something?”