Over and Again

by Brooke Edwards

  The silence after his words hangs heavy between them, James blinking as a whole new reality settles in around him. There are moments frozen in his mind with an agonizing clarity. Recognizing Coy on the bank of the lake and seeing his hands on Derek all over again are going to feature in his nightmares for the rest of his life, he’s sure, but this moment is going to stick for a long time. Derek’s face shutters when the silence stretches out, and he looks down again and leans back, away from James’s hand.

  It isn’t until he tries to untangle their fingers that James snaps out of it, clutching at him. The movement jars his hip and leg but he bites back the grimace and holds on to Derek’s hand tightly. “Don’t,” he blurts out, and Derek stills but doesn’t look up. The angle only makes the harsh, dark line of stitches even more obvious, and a lump rises at the back of James’s throat.

  The silence lasts another moment, Derek a tense line beside the bed.

  “I’m not sorry, either,” James manages to say eventually. The words don’t feel entirely true because James knows that he’s never going to be physically capable of doing the job that’s a huge part of who he is again. They’re not a lie, either, because James thinks that if he’d come up with an idea that would have gotten them out of that situation alive, he probably would have done something insane on the off-chance it worked, too. He just doesn’t think he ever would have had the guts to hit the detonator, not with both himself and Derek in the firing line. The fact that Derek had been right beside Coy makes cold dread seize his insides all over again. He swallows around the lump. “Did—how did you get out of the way?”

  Derek flinches again, his fingers shaking. James squeezes, not wanting to hear the answer as much as he needs to hear it.

  “Used—” It comes out as a choked sound more than a word, and Derek swallows audibly, his Adam’s apple jumping in his throat. “I used him as a shield.”

  Relief, warm and shocking and overwhelming, hits James like a wave. He has no idea what he wanted to hear, or why hearing that settles some of the distress. “Risky,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue before he even realizes he’s saying it.

  Derek lifts his head slowly, and James can track the second it takes for his eyes to focus, but once they do there’s a glint of exasperated disbelief there. He misses the arched eyebrow, but the expression is the closest to normal they’ve come in a long time.

  “Come here,” he says, tugging at Derek’s hand and encouraging him closer.

  With the guidance of his hand, Derek eases up slowly, supporting himself against the side of the bed. James tugs harder, using the resistance to sit up a little further. “Slowly,” James reminds him, and Derek’s eyebrow twitches just enough for a delighted laugh to bubble out of him.

  “There you are,” he says when Derek is pressed against his good side, reaching out to cradle his cheek again. “Eyebrows and all.”

  Relaxing into the touch, Derek huffs a little, but his eyes flutter closed, and the harsh line of his mouth softens. “Am I hurting you?” he asks quietly.

  “No,” James says, and even though the angle is terrible and his neck protests instantly, he leans in. Their noses brush and Derek sighs against his mouth when their lips make contact, his hand settling lightly against the side of James’s neck.

  Instead of the familiar notes of Derek’s cologne and bodywash, the smell of antiseptic and generic soap fill James’s nose. It’s only distracting for a minute, before the differences fade away and the familiarity of Derek’s lips against his takes over. A deep, still comfort takes the place of the aches and pains.

  “I love you,” he whispers when Derek pulls back, sliding his hand further to cradle the back of Derek’s head and press their foreheads together.

  Derek’s thumb presses against the hinge of his jaw and he kisses him again, his teeth grazing James’s bottom lip. James barely hears the cough from the doorway, but the loud sound of a nurse’s knuckles rapping against the door breaks through enough that they pull apart. Not far, though, and James holds Derek against his side even as the nurse approaches them, a grin teasing at the corners of her mouth.

  “I’m not going to fall off the edge,” Derek says, firmly pulling away from James’s hands. He shifts off the side of the bed, movement slow and deliberate, and when he looks up at James from the chair his eyes are clear and bright. He reaches out and tangles their fingers together again. The corners of his mouth twitch up and James’s heart skips—just a beat—before settling into a content rhythm. The man beside his bed looks more alive than James has seen him look in months, and that’s enough for James to be sure that they’ll make it through whatever else comes.

  Daniel unlocks his apartment door, already feeling the tension start to slip away. All he wants is to sprawl out over the sofa with his head in Peter’s lap until Peter gets with the program and plays with his hair… until Daniel either works up enough energy to take him to bed or falls asleep. Either works because after the day he’s had, Daniel isn’t going to be fussy. “If I ever tell you I’m angling for a promotion and want to be Captain, please slap sense back into me,” he calls out as he kicks off his boots, shoves his whole utility belt into the safe, and swings the door shut with a bang. “It’s like babysitting a gang of armed toddlers with no respect for authority. Shooting in the middle of a goddamn plaza. Nottage took a slug to the arm and sprained his ankle, and I spent the entire afternoon interrogating someone who literally decided to piss himself out of spite. Right in the chair.”

  “Hard day, honey?” Peter’s voice is light and teasing. Daniel can see the top of his head over the back of the sofa.

  More of the tension sloughs off Daniel’s shoulders and he sighs, not even bothering to go around the sofa, just throwing his body over the back of it and falling toward the seat and Peter’s lap.

  A sudden yowling sound has his eyes shooting open, just as sharp claws sink into the meat of his shoulder and Peter shouts, “The cat, Daniel!”

  6

  Cohen regrets buying the assorted apology coffees when he realizes he has to figure out how to carry them all an entire block back to the precinct. An older woman opens the door for him as he juggles the trays on his way out, and he smiles at her gratefully as he steps down onto the sidewalk. He hasn’t been rookie enough to be responsible for such a huge coffee run in a while, and it takes him a few hundred yards to get accustomed to carrying the trays again. The sloshing from side to side that threatens to unseat the cups from their precarious slots is the hardest part to compensate for because each tray apparently has an opinion on how the laws of physics should work and none of them are the same.

  He’s pretty sure that more than one person he passes laughs at him, but a little shame is nothing compared to the Sorry You Got Shot latte with caramel creamer and the strong, black The Pee Wasn’t My Fault coffee. He’ll be copping heat for the clusterfuck the meetup had turned into for a while, but he’ll take it. They’ve got two suspects in custody and no innocent civilians or police officers were seriously injured or died. That’s a win in most of the ways that count. Cohen had turned it over every which way for most of the night before, throughout a scalding hot shower and then laying between his sofa and coffee table, staring at the steady rotation of the ceiling fan. No matter which way he looks at it, he can’t figure out how everything went so completely to hell in the space of a minute.

  The media reports on it have been sparse and calm, considering the circumstances. For once, the fact that the people who died were the ones carrying guns is going in the NYPD’s favor. Roger had dealt with the press, and Cohen had dealt with his aunt’s persistent phone calls. Now they needed to figure out who the John and Jane Does were, and how to get something useful out of the two in custody.

  Cohen snaps out of his thoughts when the precinct looms in front of him. Automated doors save him from that indignity, but there’s no one at the elevator bank when he gets there. He doesn’t dare upset the precarious balance he’s got happening with the trays
, so he just waits, shifting his weight from one foot to the other slowly and carefully, until a passing officer on his cell phone takes pity on him and reaches out to press the Call button without so much as breaking stride or looking at Cohen. By the time Cohen turns his head to thank him, the officer is halfway toward the doors. It only takes another few seconds for the elevator to arrive, doors sliding open, and it’s blissfully empty. Cohen steps forward, keeping the trays balanced, and makes it into the elevator but is immediately surrounded by a cluster of uniformed bodies. The corner of one of the trays catches on someone, and Cohen knows that particular tray has Daniel’s coffee on it. To save it, he’ll lose the entire other tray. The decision paralyzes him to the point where it takes him until the doors have closed and they’re travelling upward to realize that Brock is right in front of him, pressed close in the crush of bodies, his big hands steadying the tray he’d been so sure he was going to drop.

  “You okay, Bailey?” he asks, and when Cohen looks up, their noses are close enough to be in serious danger of brushing. This close, Brock’s eyes are more blue than gray, and there are faint crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. They aren’t deep enough to notice from much further away, and Cohen thinks, just for a second, that he obviously doesn’t laugh often enough.

  “I’m good,” he says, blinking. Cohen can feel the press of the outside of their thighs and hips where they’re pushed together in the corner. “Thanks, I think Daniel would have actually shot me if I dropped his coffee.”

  “I got a pretty incomprehensible text from him this morning,” Brock says, and the crow’s feet deepen as his lips curve up in a grin. “Something about a cat, and what might have been a court-marshalling? Didn’t have the heart to tell him it probably wouldn’t go his way, after I checked the news.” His face turns serious in the space between one heartbeat and the next. “It was pretty vague coverage. You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “No,” Cohen blurts. “Everyone was fine. Well. Andy copped a bullet graze and sprained something, but he’s fine other than that. We don’t know who the Does are yet, but pretty confident they weren’t on our side.”

  The elevator dings loudly, and they’re the only ones left. Brock takes a huge step backward, taking one of the trays with him. “That’s good.”

  Cohen trails after him, concentrating on carrying the remaining tray instead of the lingering heat in his cheeks and the places where they were pressed together.

  “Priorities,” he mutters to himself. “Stick to them.”

  Derek would like to never see the inside of a hospital ever again, so when his mother broaches the idea of he and James coming home with them, it sounds like the best idea he’s ever heard. “Yes,” he says instantly.

  “There’s a nurse that would be coming to check up on you every day or so,” she says, and there are lines around her eyes and mouth that Derek thinks weren’t there six months ago. The fact that he can’t be sure, though, makes the cold dread creep in all over again, so he concentrates on not thinking about it. “And there’s a physiotherapist who will be helping James too. The house isn’t perfect, and we’ll have to help him for a while, but it’s better laid out than James’s. Everything he needs is on the ground floor, and the bathroom is bigger and safer. Away from the city, at least. We’d just feel so much better, sweetheart—”

  “I said yes, Mom,” Derek says, and reaches out to put his hand over hers. “I don’t….” He swallows and takes a second to push the words past his teeth and tongue. “I don’t care, as long as it’s not here.”

  Her eyes are bright with tears and Derek’s lungs tighten, a swirling mess of grief and guilt centered in his chest. He tugs at her hand until she leans forward, hugging him tightly. It’s nothing like the tentative, gentle way everyone has been touching him, and he slumps against her, ignoring the faint ache in his shoulders and neck to bury his face in the side of hers. The smell of her perfume is familiar and comforting, a deep enough memory that the fog doesn’t touch it.

  “Please don’t ever make me live through something like that again, Derek.” Her voice wavers, right by his ear.

  He knows, distantly, that he should promise her he won’t, but the words won’t come. Instead, he just hugs her back tighter and feels her tears against the back of his neck.

  “So, you’ve been looking into Howard Masters?” Daniel asks Brock when they settle in the conference room. Cohen is hovering in the corner, his face a strange mix of stubborn and sheepish. Daniel’s read him as much of the riot act as he can muster up over the mess of yesterday already, but he’s not averse to letting him stew a bit longer. “Any ideas?”

  “Well, he was definitely tangled up in some serious shit,” Brock says. His gaze keeps flitting around the room, and Daniel notices it stops on Cohen more often than not. The two men had come out of the elevator together, but Daniel hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, too focused on the trays of coffee in their hands. “I’ve been thinking that maybe it was less accidental or coincidental than we assumed. Is there someone that would benefit from both of them being killed?”

  Daniel frowns down at the lid of his coffee, thinking it over.

  “As in the same person wanted them both dead?” Martine is frowning too when he looks up. “We’ve been thinking it was one or the other. There’s nothing connecting the both of them.”

  “Are there any gang links in the RICO case?” Cohen asks. “I mean, the best way to throw off suspicion is to hide a motive, right?”

  “Right,” Daniel agrees.

  “Nothing obvious has come up yet,” Brock says. “Although the people under suspicion certainly aren’t above hiding their motive by outsourcing to a gang. Convenience?”

  “If I needed to get rid of a snitch and someone approached me about getting rid of another snitch, and I could do both at once, I would,” Andrew pipes up. “Forensics hardly ever find anything on a drive-by shooting, and without a clear motive we’re looking for needles in a haystack.”

  “Putting aside the fact I’m thinking about ordering a psych eval for you now, that’s a valid point,” Daniel says. “Have you taken your painkillers?”

  “Yes, Dad.” Andrew snaps a sloppy salute, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine. I’m just saying that it makes sense. I mean, those Wall Street types would want to outsource their dirty work. They don’t like putting themselves at physical crime scenes, and if Masters was a weak link, getting rid of him before it goes in front of a court would be a priority.”

  “That’s definitely a point,” Brock says. “Just because I haven’t found it, doesn’t mean there isn’t a link there, either. It’s not unusual for these things to be multilevel. The kind of people that end up on RICO radars usually do have people doing their dirty work for them.”

  “And if they’re on the scene, that puts Bartlett there too,” Cohen says.

  “He’s been in the wind since the last time.” Daniel grits his teeth against the flare of anger at just the mention of his name. “If he had something to do with it, he would have rubbed our faces in it by now.”

  “Maybe he’s wizened up?” Brock doesn’t sound convinced, but he’s staring at Cohen with a thoughtful look on his face. “He could be the wild card we’re looking for to connect everything. You said that Sal put Bartlett and Fairhall in with this gang after they escaped? It makes sense that he’d crawl back to somewhere he had some support to regroup after your last run-in with him.”

  “Sal’s intel had Fairhall as the connection,” Daniel points out. “Without Fairhall, we’ve got no reason to believe Bartlett’s got any allies left there.” A pregnant, uneasy silence falls after that. Daniel’s focus flits between Brock and Cohen, who are focused on each other.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Andrew says after a few moments, and then noisily slurps at the last of his coffee. “That’d do it.”

  “Sanskrit proverbs now?” Brock snorts and it breaks the silence, Daniel and Cohen chuckling too. Martine plucks the empty cup out
of Andrew’s hand. “What’s next, Art of War?”

  “The fact that you know it’s a Sanskrit proverb is just as bad,” Cohen says. “Did you know that, Andy?”

  “Kautilya’s Arthashastra,” Andrew says promptly, and hops off the table he’s perched on. He wobbles a little when he stands up, steadying himself against the table to keep the weight off his left foot. “I read.”

  Martine laughs as everyone else stares at Andrew. “Who are you and what did you do with the Jersey kid you’re wearing?”

  “Stereotypes will get you into trouble.” Andrew waves at her, half limping, half hopping toward the door. She follows him. “I’m gonna see if I can tie Bartlett back to Sal or any of his buddies. From my desk, before you even say anything.”

  “So, apparently I fell into an alternate dimension last night,” Daniel says after a moment, all three of them still staring at the door. He shakes his head to clear it and focuses back on Brock. “He could have a point, as much as I don’t want to think Bartlett’s still at large.”

  “I think he’s right,” Cohen says, twisting his coffee lid round and round. “We were more interested in Fairhall and probably missed some big signs about Bartlett.”

  “Can’t ignore logic like that,” Brock agrees. He leans back, his dress shirt stretching tight across his chest with the movement. Daniel can see Cohen looking out of the corner of his eye, and sighs. Another puppy-love crush is exactly what they don’t need, but he’s not enough of an asshole to call the younger man out on it. Not when it would be too much like kicking him while he’s already down, and especially not when he’s seen Brock darting the same kind of looks back almost as often. Maybe getting laid would do them both good, he muses. Just as long as it doesn’t screw up their working relationship.