by C. B. Lewis
His eyes were stinging and they felt hot and wet. He lifted his hand to hide them, to hide his face, to hide from Jacob, because he didn’t need to be stupid and pathetic and emotional in front of Jacob. He didn’t want Jacob to look or care, because it was all wrong and messed up, and if he looked and he cared and he acted on it, then it would get even more twisted up and knotted, and Kit didn’t know how to undo it and didn’t even know if he’d want to.
He heard the glass being set down on the coffee table, and then a warm hand touched his knee. He flinched.
“Kit, look at me.” Jacob was so close, and he sounded worried.
Kit shook his head. “Please,” he whispered.
He didn’t know what he was asking for. He didn’t know if it was invitation or dismissal. He didn’t know anymore, and his hand was wet, and his throat closed up with the tears he was trying to hold back.
“He was meant to come back,” he choked out. “He was meant to come back and this was meant to be a whole load of bollocks.”
“I know,” Jacob murmured. “We hoped that would be the case.”
“But it’s not!” Kit crammed his other hand over his eyes, pressing the heels to his eyelids to try and stop the bloody tears. It was stupid and it wasn’t helping anyone, and they wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard he pressed his hands against them. “It’s not and he’s dead!”
The word felt like it hung on the air in the echoing silence.
Jacob’s hands were suddenly on his shoulders, broad and warm and solid, someone safe and here, and Kit couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward. His head dropped down, his brow coming to rest on Jacob’s shoulder. The tears were still falling like they wouldn’t stop, and he felt lost.
Quarter of a century of life, and he’d never had someone he knew and liked die on him.
It was wrong.
Ben needed his dad. It wasn’t right or fair to take his dad away from him. It wasn’t.
Kit didn’t know when his hands moved to grasp the front of Jacob’s coat. He didn’t even notice when Jacob’s hand had curled across the nape of his neck, his other hand rubbing in circles on Kit’s back. He only noticed both things when the tears finally stopped, and he felt hollowed out and raw.
He stared blankly at the wet stains on Jacob’s jacket. He knew he should lift his head, but he was tired and he felt like he had nothing left in him.
“I never lost someone,” he confided. “Not someone I knew.”
Jacob nodded and his beard brushed Kit’s ear. “It’s hard,” he murmured. “Losing someone is never going to be easy, no matter what your relationship is.” His fingers were curled under Kit’s hair against the back of Kit’s neck, moving gently up and down. “It’s not wrong to grieve for them.”
Kit nodded as much as he could without lifting his head.
They only pulled back from each other when the front door opened and footsteps came toward the door of the living room. Jacob straightened up, one hand still on Kit’s shoulder, as Mariam came back into the room.
She looked crap, but he had a feeling he wasn’t much better. Her eyes were on Jacob. “Do you mind if we go for now?” Kit was impressed how steady her voice was. “I don’t think we can be much more use to you today.”
“Of course,” Jacob murmured. “I’ll arrange for Temple to take you back.”
She removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes with forefinger and thumb. “Do you want to come back to the office, Kit? Or go home?”
“Office.”
The idea of going back to his empty flat with nothing but the thought of Sanders stepping through the gate wasn’t appealing at all. It was true they wouldn’t be able to do anything more in the office, but they could point him at machines, give him something else to think about, and he could try and hold himself together.
The journey was made in almost complete silence.
Temple traveled with them. She and Mariam occasionally said something to each other, but Kit didn’t want to listen. He stared out of the window as they shuttled back toward the city, wondering how much he would need to drink to forget what a gate malfunction could do.
He’d created a dozen hypothetical scenarios when he first started with the TRI: what would happen if someone was halfway through and the gate shut down, or if they were midway through the trip back and the connection was lost. He had a whole array, and the worst by far was the short-circuit option.
He posited that a short-circuit in the grid would not only destroy the connection, but completely obliterate anything or anyone in transit at the time. Sanders had agreed with it. Kit shuddered. It was a theory he wished he’d never come up with, no matter how accurate it might be.
Temple dropped them outside of the TRI building.
“What are we going to tell them?” Kit asked as they walked up the steps.
Mariam was looking up at the tower. “What we know.”
He nodded, following her in. Paulina nodded in greeting. Kit thought he returned the gesture, but he couldn’t be sure. He just propped himself in the corner of the lift, closed his eyes, and held on to the handrails as tightly as he could.
The doors closed and the lift started moving.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
He opened his eyes and looked across at Mariam. “About the gate? I don’t know what I can tell you. It was functioning, but I don’t know where he was trying to go, or when.”
“No.” She wasn’t looking at him. “Not about the gate.” She wet her lips and turned to face him. “I’m talking about you and Detective Inspector Ofori.”
Maybe the elevator jolted or maybe his stomach just dropped down to his toes. He wasn’t blushing for once. Instead he felt cold and his reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift was ashen. “What do you mean?”
She looked blankly back at him. “Don’t lie to me, Kit. I was outside the house. I saw you through the window.”
“I-I was upset.” He was stammering, and the rails were cold and hard against his palms. “He was trying to calm me down.”
“You didn’t see the way he was looking at you.” Her face was lined with fatigue. “What have you done?”
He pressed into the corner of the lift, breathing hard. “Mariam,” he began, then trailed off helplessly.
“For pity’s sake, Kit.” She sounded like she was on the verge of tears. “You knew we were going into lockdown. What were you thinking?”
He shook his head. “I think it’s pretty clear I wasn’t, isn’t it?” His lips trembled and he pressed them together, trying to keep them still.
“He’s investigating us,” Mariam said quietly. “Don’t you understand that? He wasn’t getting information out of us, and then he’s what? Flirting with you? And suddenly, he knows Sanders was building a teleportation device, he has video footage that could compromise us, and he knows where Sanders’s lab is?”
Kit flinched as if she’d slapped him. “He—it wasn’t like that!”
He didn’t know what was worse: the condescension or the pity in her eyes. “I know you want to believe that, but he didn’t have anything on us before.”
“And you think I told him everything, because I shagged him?” Kit’s heart fluttered against his ribs. “Is that how much you trust me?”
Mariam winced, but she didn’t have a chance to say anything as the lift chimed, notifying them they were on the tenth floor. She stepped toward him, touched his wrist. “Kit, it’s not about not trusting you.”
He shook her hand off, pressed his palm to the door sensor, and stepped out into the hall. It was quiet, mercifully, and he turned around to look at her. “Bullshit.” His voice sounded like a stranger’s, raw and angry. “You just accused me of deliberately telling him everything! I didn’t tell him anything about Sanders’s house! I hadn’t even been there before today!”
“Kit—” She reached out again, but he recoiled.
“Don’t!” he snapped. “You don’t get to play nice, Mariam. The only thing I told him about was t
hat bloody eye, and the only reason I was there to tell him about it was because you sent me down there. You know what I’m like when I find some new, exciting tech, and you sent me there!”
“I know,” she agreed, “and I did. I’m sorry about that.”
“About that. But not about calling me a traitor.” He shook his head. “I changed my mind. I want to go home.” He pushed past her to get back in the lift, slapping his hand against the console to shut the door. He grasped the handrail again, pressing his brow to the cool metal of the wall.
She was wrong.
She had to be wrong.
He hadn’t told Jacob anything, apart from the details relating to the eye. He couldn’t remember saying anything incriminating. He hadn’t. Had he? Okay, maybe Jacob had seen some of the tech, but that didn’t tell him anything. Not really. Did it?
Jesus, he didn’t know.
He stumbled out of the lift on the ground floor and didn’t even stop to speak to Paulina. He was four blocks away when he realized that he’d left his bag and his jacket in the engineering bay. All he had with him were his pass and his quill.
He stopped, turning on the spot.
He could go back, get his stuff, but he didn’t want to set foot in there, not now, not when he was fizzing over with anger and distress and it was full of people who didn’t trust him or give a shit about him. The only people in the TRI who had ever showed him any real concern were the man who had died and the man he’d lied to protect.
He withdrew his quill, opening out the screen. Yeah, he could get home without his stuff, and Jenny had a spare security pass for his door, but he didn’t want to be at home, sitting there, looking at gate pieces and trying to find a way to make it impossible for it to short-circuit. He would work himself to exhaustion and it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference, not now.
Home or the TRI. Isolation or a place full of people who probably believed he had spilled his guts to the man who was investigating them.
He sank to sit on the step of a nearby building, his legs shivering.
There was a message registered on the quill, and he opened it.
Jacob’s name and number.
A message offering the number of a bereavement support group. It was a kindness he hadn’t asked for from a man who—if Mariam was to be believed—only got close to him to pick him bare of information.
It was true Jacob did ask a lot of questions. Hell, Kit had joked about it only the other day, but he couldn’t believe it, not about Jacob. Jacob was the one who had stepped back. He was the one who’d said it wasn’t good for them to be together, not when the case was ongoing.
Kit stared blindly at the message.
His thumb moved.
The bar. An hour. Please.
It took him more than half that to get to the bar where they had met only three days earlier. It felt like much longer than that, when he was still stupid and giddy with the thought of meeting a handsome man for a drink.
This time, he took a table in the corner, and another glass of scotch. He didn’t normally like it, but with one glass of the stuff already sitting heavily in his stomach, mixing in something else seemed like a bad idea.
He didn’t know if Jacob would come. If they’d been in each other’s shoes….
Hell, he didn’t even know then.
His eyes stung again, and he rubbed at them with his fist.
Wouldn’t help anyone.
The chair opposite him scraped the floor as it was pulled back. He lowered his hand from his eyes. Jacob was sitting there, and silently he reached across the table and offered Kit his hand. Kit threaded his fingers between Jacob’s, and Jacob curled his to hold Kit’s hand.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
Kit shook his head.
“Can I help?”
Kit looked at their linked hands. His throat felt tight, and hot tears streaked down his cheeks. “Tell me the truth,” he asked, trying to keep his voice even. “Did you only come near me to get information about the case?”
“Kit—”
“Please,” Kit cut over him. “Please. Just tell me. I won’t be angry, I promise. I just… I need to know.” Jacob was silent for just long enough, and it was like a punch in the stomach. Kit started laughing sadly. “No answer is better than a lie, eh? Just my luck. Couldn’t be that you were interested in me.”
“Kit, I didn’t—”
“No, no,” Kit said, trying to smile. “Daft of me. Course you only wanted information. Stupid Kit. Showed an interest. Made it easier for you.”
“Kit!” Jacob said sharply. “Will you let me finish?” Kit mutely looked back down at their hands. Jacob sighed, but his grip tightened. “Maybe at first, I thought it might be useful, but what kind of wanker do you take me for? Do you really think I could shag someone if I didn’t like them?”
Kit shrugged. “Dunno.”
Jacob released his hand, and Kit stared dully at his empty pale fingers lying on the table. He didn’t want to look up and see Jacob walking away, but that meant he didn’t see Jacob circle around the table, until Jacob sat down right beside him.
Jacob’s fingertips touched his cheek, tilting his head up.
Jacob was there, beside him, looking at him with frustration and affection. “Getting information was an excuse,” he said, his hand cradling Kit’s cheek. His palm was so warm. Kit tilted his face into it, shivering. “Give me one good reason why I wouldn’t be interested in you.”
Kit blinked hard, and his cheeks were wet again. “Because I’m a bloody great tit with no brain-to-mouth connection.”
When Jacob smiled, the lines in his face deepened beautifully and his eyes were bright. “All a part of your charm, you daft tosser.” He stroked the tears from Kit’s cheeks with his thumbs. “Try again.”
Kit stared at him. “It wasn’t just about the case?”
“Why d’you think I left?” Jacob sighed. “I didn’t want to compromise you.”
Kit was torn between laughing and crying. He couldn’t find any words, so he just leaned forward and buried his face in Jacob’s neck, wrapping his arms around him, and when Jacob embraced him, it felt all right.
Chapter 25
THERE WERE pork chops sizzling in the pan.
Jacob prodded at them with a fork.
He had done something very stupid, and hiding in the kitchen seemed like the wisest course of action, at least until he could scrape together his wits and try and figure out how to undo the mess he was in.
Kit was in his flat.
It hadn’t been intentional.
He’d just gone to the bar to make sure the younger man was okay, but Kit wasn’t. He was far from okay. Jacob knew he couldn’t just leave him sitting there, alone and falling apart, so he’d done the first thing that came into his head: invited Kit back to his place.
He jabbed a chop, frowning at it.
He knew he should be angry with himself, but he had more to be worried about. It said a lot about Kit’s situation that he would contact someone who could have been using him rather than a friend when he was in distress. That meant he didn’t have a close circle of friends. That was the simple and depressing answer.
Jacob flipped the chop over. There were potatoes cooking as well, but it was a poor man’s feast. He hadn’t been to the shops in days, and he’d had to hack eyes off the potatoes before he tossed them in the pan.
He didn’t even want to think about the mess the flat was in.
It wasn’t that he was dirty or anything. It was just that he never got around to doing anything in the house when he was on a case: laundry would pile up, dishes would form citadels, the bed would go unmade, and yeah, he would look like a lazy bastard to anyone who came to visit.
“You want a drink?” he called through the door to the living room, before wondering if he’d left more than one bottle of beer in the fridge.
“I’m okay.”
Jacob left the chops sizzling and stepped back into the living room, wipin
g his hands on a cloth. Compared to Kit’s flat, his home was little more than a cupboard: bedroom on one side of the living room, kitchen on the other, and a small bathroom at the back. He could have got something bigger, but two and a half decades of being frugal was a hard habit to break.
Kit was sitting on the couch.
Jacob stopped short, eyebrows rising. “What are you doing?”
Kit had the basket of fresh laundry between his feet. He looked up guiltily, a half-folded pair of socks clutched between his hands. “I needed to be doing something,” he said, “and it was this or try and fix that piece of crap you call a TV.”
Jacob glanced at his media unit. It was true that it was old, but still. “It’s a classic.”
Kit snorted, ducking his head over the laundry basket. “Fossil,” he muttered.
Jacob tossed the towel at his head. “I thought you appreciated vintage things.”
When Kit looked back up at him, there was a tentative smile on his lips. “So you remember what I said?”
Jacob leaned back against the kitchen doorframe. “I pay attention. It’s my job.” Kit looked back at the laundry basket and hesitated before picking up a pair of boxers to fold them. Jacob couldn’t help smiling wryly. “Shy about touching my smalls?”
“Didn’t know if you’d mind.”
“I think once you’ve handled the goods, handling the wrapper is allowed.”
Another of those small, cautious smiles passed over Kit’s face. It was a new side to him that Jacob hadn’t seen before, a much more fragile side.
Jacob withdrew back into the kitchen to check on the chops, feeling a little of the weight lift from him. He had to admit he’d been worried that it would be strange to have Kit here. It was unexpected, true, but it didn’t feel all that strange.
The food was ready less than five minutes later. He scraped the chops onto a pair of plates and added a pile of potatoes for each of them. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, and he had a feeling Kit probably hadn’t eaten anything since they were at Sanders’s house.
“Grub up,” he declared, carrying both plates through.
Kit set down the shirt he was folding and pushed the laundry basket back with his foot. “You didn’t need to feed me.”