Sherlock Holmes Fic: History, Repeating Itself (Chapter Three; Holmes/Watson; R)

[gyzym]

Title: History, Repeating Itself (Chapter Three)
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (currently pre-slash)
Warnings: PTSD, vivid war imagery, alcohol and marijuana use, general debauchery, copious use of coarse language
Spoilers: None, except for Chapter One and Chapter Two of this story.
Author's Notes: This is a fill for an AWESOME prompt at shkinkmeme; both the prompt and the fill thread can be found here. I will continue posting the chapters bit-by-bit there and then archiving them on my journal for the duration of this story.
Chapter Summary: John Watson goes several places he doesn't wish to go, makes a new friend, lives a nightmare and comes to a realization.


Chapter Three: On the Occasional Merits of the Insane--Dangers and Benefits

The next thing I remember is waking up on Friday night with Holmes' face like an inch from mine. I know I must have finished all my work and turned it in and gone to class and shit, but I don't recall it. I have a vague memory of doing jumping jacks to stay awake, but that might have been Holmes.

In any case, he shook me awake on Friday night and he was too close to me and I was really tired, so I told him to fuck off and rolled over. That in and of itself wasn't weird--it's the fact that I honestly believed it would work that makes me shake my head in despair.

Fifteen blissful, uninterrupted minutes later, I woke again. He was sitting on me.

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!" he crowed, straddling and shaking me. I sat up at once and shoved him violently backwards, hoping he wouldn't notice my raging fucking erection. He landed haphazardly across the couch, laughed hysterically and launched himself at me, tackling me onto the ground.

"Pinned you," he said.

I flipped him easily, careful to hold him by the wrists without leaning into him enough to betray myself. "Pinned you faster, and I don't smell bacon, just weed."

Sparkling under me, even though the circles under his eyes were pronounced enough now to resemble bruises, he was pretty hard to resist. I bit my tongue to keep myself on the straight and narrow, forcing my gaze from his.

"I lied," he said, grinning.

"Did you sleep?" I returned, rolling off of him. He shrugged--I felt it more than saw it.

"Kind of," he told me. "A couple hours. But it's Friday! We're going out."

"You're going out, maybe. I am going to go pass out in a proper bed for at least eighteen hours."

"You're so wrong," Holmes said, propping his head up on his hand. "It's almost funny, really. Didn't I tell you I was taking you to the clubs?"

"I don't dance," I warned him. "And I'm not going. And that was like a month ago, dude. Threats expire."

"We can go see Miles first," he wheedled. "And I'll teach you to dance, and threats don't expire; they age like a fine wine. Come on! It'll be fun."

"You know what sounds fun? Sleeping sounds fun. It's this thing you do where you close your eyes and no one bothers you--"

"Like I'm going to let you sleep," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. Said action drew me to look more closely at his eyes, which--there was a slightly smudged quality to them, almost as though--

"Holmes," I said slowly, "are you wearing eyeliner?"

"You're a ridiculous person," he said, looking hastily away. I grabbed the back of his neck and twisted his face around to get a better look.

"You are!" I crowed. "Oh my god, how ridiculously gay can you possibly be?"

"Shut the fuck up," he growled. "It's just a little. A friend said I should try it."

"A friend, huh? Do you need me to clear out so you can do up your mascara?"

"I hate you," he sniffed, turning away from me and standing. "Now get dressed. Wheels up in ten minutes."

"That doesn't even--"

"You are coming to the fucking club!" he called, already at his door. "Put on something sexy, and don't bother trying to run."

--

Holmes hadn't been lying about stopping by his brother's. We ducked into the Clearinghouse on our way to the club, and Miles noticed the eyeliner almost as quickly as I had.

"You've got to stop listening to my girlfriend," he said, looking his brother over with a critical eye. "You look even more like a fag than usual."

"Three things," Holmes snapped, ticking off his points with his fingers. "One, stop saying fag, it makes you sound like a meathead. Two, no I don't. And three, is Irene your girlfriend again this week?"

"Who can say?" Miles shrugged, as a redheaded woman walked out from the back of the bar and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"I can," she said, grinning. "And yes, this week I am. Hi, Sherlock."

"Vixen," he returned. "You look ravishing as ever. I don't know why you waste yourself on my brother, he's such a tool."

"Well," she laughed, "I'd happily have taken up with the other Holmes, but he's tragically enamored of the male genitalia. Shame, really. Who's your friend?"

"John Watson," I said, holding out a hand. "How'd you get him to let you call him by his first name?"

She shook, smiling at me. "Irene Adler. We grew up together; he knows I don't put up with his bullshit. You must be the new roommate."

"In the flesh," I said, grinning. "God help me."

Her own smile deepened. "Miles," she said, "I might throw you over for this one. Just so you know."

Miles shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time," he told us. "But I think he's also, uh, 'tragically enamored of the male genitalia.' Sorry, babe."

"You win some, you lose some," she said, sighing and letting go of my hand. "If you ever change your mind--"

"I'll be sure to let you know," I offered, flushing slightly. She looked delighted.

"Sherlock," she laughed, "look, he blushes! Where did you get him, I want one for my personal use."

Both Miles and Holmes looked torn between irritation and affection, though for entirely different reasons. "He's just freaked out because I'm taking him dancing," Holmes told her. "And by the way, everyone I've talked to says this eyeliner looks retarded, thanks for that."

"Don't listen to them, it's adorable--"

They got into a heated discussion about whether or not he should wash it off, and I turned to Miles, who raised an eyebrow at me.

"You're letting him take you clubbing?" he asked. "I thought you had more sense."

"You act like I have a choice," I sighed, sliding onto a stool. He laughed, grabbed a bottle Johnny Walker Blue from under the bar, and poured me a double. He shook his head at my shocked expression.

"On the house. You're going to need it, trust me."

"But it's Johnny Walker Blue!" I cried.

He shrugged easily, just as Holmes and Irene cut in with a simultaneous "He can afford it." They grinned brightly at each other.

"The ladies are right," Miles said. "Drink up." He poured himself a glass to match and we clinked them together, downing them in one go.

It burned deliciously, and did, admittedly, calm my nerves somewhat.

So did the tequila Irene handed Holmes from behind the counter.

So did the Labatt chaser.

By the time we left the bar, Holmes' eyeliner had been reapplied and I was finding everything hilarious. I was also, to my dismay, having a bit of trouble controlling myself--Holmes is a handsy drunk.

Well, no. Holmes is just handsy, but it gets worse when he feels like he has an excuse.

"Waaaaaatson," he said, "you have to promise to let me teach you to dance, I can't bring you out and have you be one of those wallflower types. It'll ruin my street cred."

"You don't have street cred," I laughed, leaning on him, He wrapped an arm around my waist, and I laughed harder at the ridiculousness of it all.

Then we rounded the corner, and I stopped laughing. The club--which I had naively imagined as a tiny bar somewhere, maybe including a stripper pole--was fucking huge. Neon pink lights, flamboyant guys smoking in groups around the door. There was a line. There was a bouncer.

"I can't go in there," I said, turning around. Holmes laughed, tightening his grip on my waist and steering me forward.

"I promise not to let any of the scary queens get you," he murmured, close to my ear. "You'll just dance with me, alright? It'll be fine, I promise."

I wanted to express my doubt as to the trustworthiness of his promises, but by that point we were inside the doors, and it was too loud to think anymore.

"Let's get a drink," Holmes shouted, grabbing my arm and pulling me forward. I followed, looking around in a mixture of curiosity and dismay. There were a lot of people. A lot of drunk, shirtless people. A serious overload of naked man-flesh, if you will.

Horrifyingly, I was still more interested in the off-limits skinny fuck dragging me towards doom with an expression of glee. It's like a disease.

Then we got to the bar. There were six bartenders. The first one we saw said "Holmes!"

...and then the rest of them, fuck my life and everything I touch, said "Holmes!"

I stared at him accusingly, and he smiled innocently at me. "Did I forget to mention that I used to work here?"

"Yes," I growled. "Yes, I think I would have recalled--"

"Kyle!" Holmes said, leaning across the bar to give the first guy an awkward man-hug. "This is Johnny, my roommate."

"He's some roommate," Kyle said, looking me up and down. I felt myself go bright red under his stare, and regretted letting Holmes talk me into coming out in a beater and jeans.

"I'd certainly like to take him home," another bartender said, walking by and leering at me. Holmes smirked and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Off-limits, Brett. And cleaner than you like 'em. Don't bother."

"Awww," Brett said, smiling prettily, and wandered off.

"Johnny?" I hissed, while Kyle--was it Kyle?--had his back turned. "Since when am I Johnny?"

"Well, I'm not going to call you Appleseed in front of all these lunatics," Holmes hissed back. "And being Holmes and Watson would--"

"Ruin your street cred?" I asked, glaring. He grinned at me, the shamelessly irritating fool.

"Kyle!" he said. "I need tequila. Johnny too. A shot for both of us?"

"I don't think that's such a good--" I started. Holmes pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"You're right," he said. "Doubles, then."

"Holmes!"

"You can take the nutcase out of the bar," Kyle laughed, grabbing the Cuervo. "I can't imagine living with him, you must be a hearty guy."

"He's a veteran," Holmes said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Even I'm not as bad as Iraq."

"Wanna bet?" I asked, grinning at him and knocking back my drink. He tried to scowl and ended up grinning at me.

"We're going to dance now," he said, "just for that. Still think the tequila was a bad idea?"

"Uh, actually," I said, "I think maybe one more--"

Kyle laughed at poured it for me, watching the line of my throat as I downed it in a way that was frankly predatory. "You're going to need it," he advised.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" I asked desperately. He just smiled, and then Holmes dragged me out onto the dance floor and looked me over criticially.

"Give me the cane," he said finally.

"Why would I--"

"You won't need it," he said firmly. Then the little bastard wrenched it out of my grip and turned around, leaning into me so we were back-to-chest and he was resting his head on my shoulder.

"See?" he said in my ear. "Now put your hands on my waist."

I was panicking--achingly fucking hard and panicking, because there was no way he didn't feel it. Sure enough, he edged back a little and then smirked at me, like he was a fucking psycho, like he was the fucking Chesire Cat.

"Poor little repressed homo," he crooned, still too close to me. "It's okay, man--it's part of the process. You can stop imitating a beet."

"I am not--" I said, but I was cut off by a moment of sudden shrieking silence and a song change.

The bass was heavy and Holmes laughed; I felt his back rise and fall with it. "Perfect," he said, "I love this song. Just--follow my body, okay? I won't go down except when it says I should, give you a chance to get used to it."

"What--" I started, but he'd already pulled his head away. He was grinding his hips into my crotch and singing along ('cause I wanna take you downtown/show you my thing), his rough, strange voice mixing badly with the lyrics. But god, the way he moved was...it was...

Maybe I haven't talked about Holmes' weird graceful streak yet. I think I haven't; I try not to, because Miles and Irene say I sound like a lovesick puppy when I do, and anyway Holmes smirks too much when I bring it up. Suffice to say that when he's not tripping over his own feet in enthusiasm or falling-down tired, he moves like--like nothing you've ever seen before. It's actually kind of unbelievable, like he was a cat in a past life; he just slinks around, lithe and easy, like he owns the room, like he's a fucking model.

...God, I do sound like a lovesick puppy, that's horrifying. But look--he moves like that in his regular life, so on the dance floor, following the song's instructions to "go downtown" by dragging his ass up and down the length of my legs, he's intoxicating. I forgot to be self-concious in favor of being stupidly, blindly aroused, and by the time the song changed again I was molded to him, following his grind with more ease than I would have expected.

It was Shiny Toy Guns next, a song called Le Disko that a friend of mine in the service had loved to death. I had a better grip on the music because of that, months and years I'd spent listening to it in my bunk, and Holmes leaned even fucking closer somehow. My hands drifted down his legs of their own accord as he pulsed against me, laughing and bending down. And then--he still had my cane and he thunked it down in front of him, using it to hold himself as he bent double and ground himself into me. I hissed out a breath and bucked into him; he growled audibly, reaching a hand up to steady himself on my waist as he straightened. It was all I could do not to bend down and lick a long, dirty stripe up his exposed neck.

He smelled like sweat and weed and tequila, like that hair gel he used to try and manage the tangle, like cigarettes and his brother's bar. He smelled like home and I inhaled, his hair curling up and everywhere, brushing my face. He stepped forward and then back and I ran my hands up and down his hips, across the sides of his torso.

He turned around when that idiotic Ke$ha song--the one about love and drugs, I don't even fucking know, he plays in my car when he thinks I'm not paying attention--started blasting. I smiled at him; he was flushed and pleased, his eyeliner already starting to run.

He smiled back. It was as bright and uncomplicated an expression as anything I'd ever seen on his face, and we'd both had too much to drink; I caught my breath and felt my head spin. And his grin widened, a tinge of innocence to it despite the circumstance; pure, unmitigated pleasure, all for me. I felt my heart skip a beat, and then another, and wondered vaguely if I was having an aneurism as I rested my hands on his ass.

"Behold," Holmes said, leaning close, "all that whining and you're already on top of it."

"Holmes," I growled, half in fantasy, "did you imagine for a second that I wouldn't be on top?"

I realized what I'd said a second after I said it, and pulled away hastily; he was looking at me with wide eyes, the grin wiped from his face. "Wait," I said desperately, "I didn't mean it like that--not like, sexually--"

"It's fine," he said, the grin flickering back to life. It was considerably more complicated than it had been the moment before, and I wanted to kick myself. The song blared on, demanding to know if my heart was beating like an 808 drum, and I wanted to tell it to go fuck itself, to let me deal with this properly.

Did Holmes look disappointed because I'd implied that I wasn't interested in fucking him or because I'd implied that I was?

"I need a drink," he said. "Want something?"

"I'll meet you," I said, because I could tell by the look on his face that he needed a minute. "I'm going to grab a cig."

"Right," he said, and wandered off. Furious at my own idiocy, I realized that I did actually want a cigarette. I slipped outside and lit one up. I finished it and lit another, trying to puzzle through how to rectify the situation--if I even could rectify the situation, considering the nature of my own desires.

He doesn't want you, I told myself, over and over until I'd remembered it was true, erased any niggling, hopeful doubt. He doesn't want you, he's got his pick out there and you're his roommate and he doesn't do relationships and you're a crippled, wallflower war vet--he doesn't want you, this is a fun night out and nothing more, if you push this you're going to ruin--

My train of thought was abruptly derailed by a voice over the speakers, filtering through the just-opened door. "--an old friend here tonight, who we've missed dearly, and he's going to treat us all to--"

The door closed, but I was already tossing my third cig and heading towards it; I knew exactly who they were talking about, and I couldn't imagine he was up to anything sane.

Sure enough, when I'd pushed my way past the crowd of twits trying to get in, Holmes was standing on the bar. His shirt was off and being twirled over his head, and the DJ had put on "Pour Some Sugar On Me," which always led to shamefully Holmesian shananigans. I was beginning to understand why. He had a bottle of vodka in one hand and that discarded shirt in the other, and he looked--

Oh, god. Debauched? Ridiculous? Unbelievably fucking hot?

My mouth went dry, looking up at him, and he must have had enough to forget about our awkward moment. He saw me and snapped his fingers at me, and I walked towards him like the little shit had hypnotized me. I stopped at the bar, my head exactly even with his crotch, and gulped. He grinned down at me and tousled my hair.

"Hey," he said, slurring it a little, "you haven't had nearly--you nearly had haven't--you need to drink more." He nudged me gently with his toe and I turned around, thinking he was going to...oh, I don't know. Jump on my back and have me carry him away? Use me as his bottom in a chicken fight? I wouldn't have put either past him.

What I didn't expect him to do was squat down on the bar, bury his hand in my hair, tip my head back, and upend his vodka bottle into my mouth.

The music was louder, somehow, than it had been a second before, and he was grinning over me as the alcohol burned its path down my throat. People were cheering us, I realized vaguely, but I was having trouble doing anything other than remembering to swallow. His eyes were bright and crazy, the way he looked right before he did something really stupid, as he broke away.

"Pour some sugar on me!" he cried, almost on beat with the song, as he righted the bottle and stood up. "And pour me some water, it's fucking hot up here!" Someone handed him and glass and he dumped it over his own head, writhing with pleasure and relief as it dripped down his hair and over his face. I couldn't believe he was getting away with this, but then he was Sherlock Holmes. He got away with almost everything, really.

The song ended, and everyone sighed in disappointment as Holmes stopped dancing and scowled.

"Ew," he said, "this isn't Def Leppard. Watson, help me down."

"Watson?" one of the bartenders called--Brett, I think. "So you're Holmes and--"

"Shut the fuck up," we snarled together. Well, I snarled that; Holmes, I think, said "fuck the shut up," but he got his point across. Brett shrank back and Holmes grinned brightly at me.

"You're so awkward when you're too sober," he said. "I helped!"

I didn't answer him. I was staring at the edge of his hipbone, where the edge of what looked like a tattoo was poking out over the edge of his jeans.

"What," I said, pointing. I meant to finish the sentence, but all that vodka was starting to deploy ranks to join the tequila and Johnnie Walker already in formation. Holmes scowled at me and pulled down the edge of his jeans, revealing--

A pipe. A tiny pipe, complete with smoke. A little Holmesian pipe.

I couldn't help myself. I cracked the fuck up.

"It wasn't my choice!" he snapped. "There was--the tattoo dude--I was drunk and my name--"

I leaned onto him, howling with laughter, unable to breathe. After a minute he cracked a smile too.

"C'mon, you--uh--stupid--shit, I'm--oh, fuck it. Let's dance."

"Okay," I said, without even thinking about it. And he was right, you know, I had been too sober to have a good time before. With the extra alcohol coursing through me I could barely stand up straight, and I couldn't see anything wrong with clinging to him to keep myself up. He seemed to be of the same mind, because he was wrapped around me, our erections pressing together through our jeans, my hands in his hair.

I don't remember much about that part of the night. I know any number of songs came and went and we stayed wrapped together; I know I didn't kiss him, because it took every ounce of my willpower not to. I know I growled warnings to six different guys who tried to cut in, and I know he did the same to the few who were interested in me. I know he did the thing with my cane again. I know that I tried the thing with my cane, with him laughing behind me, smacking my ass and cat-calling.

I know at one point, choking on hysterics over something I'd said, he buried his face in the crook of my neck, and the sensation--the casual intimacy of it all, the what-could-be--nearly knocked me down.

I know too that we went out to smoke once or twice, that we had another couple drinks, that Holmes openly mocked a dude who was cross the street and nearly hit him. I wasn't drunk enough to black out entirely, but I was close, and so shit was pretty hazy for awhile there. Can't be helped, I suppose, undignified though it may be.

Here's the next thing I remember clearly: Bad Romance ended with Holmes facing away from me, and a new song came on. And you know, if I'd been less drunk, or he'd been more clothed, or we'd been less into the atmosphere of the place, I might have paid attention to what was playing. As it was, I felt a vague tinge of recognition and a brief flash of worry, and was then entirely distracted by Holmes, who'd turned his head round to stare at me as he went low. He was biting his lip and his eyes were almost shy, and so no, I didn't notice that it was Paper Planes playing.

At least, I didn't know it was Paper Planes playing until we hit the chorus, and that motherfucking voice sang out "And all I wanna do is--" and four gunshots rent the air, deafening and close.

Okay, folks. Here's the thing about PTSD that makes it a real bitch--it's hard to know what your trigger is going to be, or how intensely you're going to react. I had a buddy who, for whatever reason, lost it whenever a cat yowled; I knew another guy who freaked out at camera flares. There are all kinds of 'Nam vets who can't handle the sound of a chopper. It's a bitch of a thing, and it's hard to control, and it's worse when you let it build up.

I hadn't had a breakdown since a car backfired at my grandfather's funeral. And maybe if I hadn't been pushing it back--skipping the calming techniques I'd learned, brushing aside adrenaline spikes because I didn't have time for them--maybe it wouldn't have happened. Maybe if I'd had one less drink, or maybe if I hadn't been so worked up from holding back from Holmes, or maybe if I'd just walked out after those first four gunshots--

Ah, well. I suppose the what ifs don't matter now.

There are 16 gunshots in the chorus of the song Paper Planes. The chorus repeats three times. I made it through the first 16 wrenching noises by gritting my teeth and holding Holmes tighter, by telling myself it was just a song, it was just the fucking club speakers. And I rode out the verse with a desperate grasp on holding it together, and I thought I was going to be able to pull it off.

Then second chorus started. At shot three, I hissed "Get down," in Holmes' ear, unable to stop myself. He, naturally, misinterpreted that, laughing and going low, grinding into me for the thousandth time.

At shot four, time slowed down.

Bang

--and the HumVee was tipping from the weight of the explosion and there was blood in my eyes and my leg was on fire, white-hot pulsing agonizing fire and there was a hand, a lone hand, it was the most grotesque thing I'd ever seen and I didn't have the training to reattach a fucking hand but it didn't matter because I was never going to get up, because the fire was going to spread from my leg to my chest to my eyes and take me alive--

Bang

--and Jimmy O'Halloran was still smiling as the bullet cleared the other side of his brain and next to me Dave was screaming his fool head off, and I'd always hated Dave but the way he tackled me to keep me from trying to save the poor unlucky bastard was certainly the only thing that kept me alive--

Bang

--and I was staring at the pile of insurgent bodies, every medical instinct in me howling at the life lost, the scent of burning flesh heavy in my nostrils and I was going to kill someone, I practically had killed someone, just because you're not holding the gun or triggering the mine or wielding the machete doesn't make you less guilty and I was going to be sick, I was going to be sick--

Bang

I was vaguely aware that Holmes had turned around, that he was saying "John," and then "Oh, fucking shit, John," but all I could think about was clearing the blast zone, was getting somewhere safe to toss my guts. I shoved him away and ran, ran without my cane, adrenaline pushing me through the blazing pain of it.

God only knows how I made it to the alley behind the club without collapsing. God only knows how I held myself up, bent over and shaking, to retch against the cold concrete. It had started raining, the kind of pissing October downpour that'd freeze you as soon as look at you, but I wasn't paying attention to that. In my mind it was sweltering and sticky and there was blood on my hands, on my feet.

I couldn't tell you how long I was out there before I felt a milk crate hit the back of my knees. My legs buckled and I landed heavily on it, and I looked wildly around for the enemy--

--but it was just Holmes, wearing an employee t-shirt he must have snatched off someone to replace the one he'd lost. He looked furious.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying to pull myself out of it; his face kept flickering in and out, replaced with Jimmy's, still smiling with a hole in his head. I was horrified to realize that my eyes had filled with tears, but Holmes just glared at me.

"Shut up," he said violently, putting his hand on my back and pushing me forward a little. "Put your head between your knees--not in the fucking puke, John, over here. That's it. Throw up again if you need to. But breathe, for God's sake, you sound like you're choking."

I think--I really do--that it was how annoyed he sounded, how Holmes that was, that pulled me back to reality. I took a deep, choking breath and then another one, and then, with my head still between my knees, I threw up again; the adrenaline or the alcohol, I'm not sure.

I am sure that he said, "Fuck," and didn't take his hand from my back. When I'd finished, he leaned down and wrapped his arms around me from behind, pressing his weight into me. I wondered vaguely if he'd taken what small PTSD hints I'd thrown him and researched it, if he knew physical contact and pressure were some of the best salves for that particular ache, or if he'd known that before he met me.

Whatever the reason, he didn't let go of me until my breathing had evened out. Until a minute after that, even.

"Shit," I said, and my voice was shaky but real enough. I was ashamed of myself. "Holmes, man, I'm so sorry--"

"That I'm a fucking idiot?" he snapped. "Yeah, I'm sorry too, it's a real bummer."

"No--I--" I rubbed my face, still out of it. "No, for this, I shouldn't have--"

"John Watson," he said, his voice cold and terrible, "if you apologize to me again I'm going to hit you. Okay?"

"Okay," I breathed, staring up at him. It was, as I mentioned, raining, but that was the first I was aware of it. Holmes' hair was plastered to his forehead and his shirt was clinging to his chest and his eyes were blazing with--something, some fire I didn't know how to put out.

"Have you ever smoked pot before?" he demanded. I blinked.

"I--what?"

"Have you ever--"

"Yes," I interrupted, catching on. "Not since college, though."

"Did you ever get paranoid?" he asked, his eyes boring holes into mine. "And answer me honestly--even one time? This is important, John, look at me. Even once?"

"No," I managed. "Just--stupid, uh, and hungry."

"Right," he said, clearly mostly to himself. He pulled a box of cigarettes out of his pocket and carefully selected one that looked handrolled. "Calming. Stops it from cycling. Makes your heart rate chill out."

He leaned down, put the joint in front of my open mouth, and raised his eyebrows at me. "Close," he said, authoritative, like the dentist. I followed the directive, and he quirked the slightest of smiles at me and sparked the thing.

"Inhale," he said, and I did.

He made me hit the joint three more times. Then he looked me over with a critical eye. "Do you think you can stand up?" he asked in all seriousness. "Because I can call Miles--"

"No," I said at once. It was bad enough that he'd seen me this way, let alone his brother. "No, I'm good."

He smiled a little more and put an arm under my shoulder, hauling me to my feet and handing me my cane.

And you know what? I don't know why we didn't catch a cab--if we couldn't grab one or if I wouldn't consent to be seen by a cab driver. What I do know is that the whole way home, he didn't stop touching me. It was a hand on my arm or a pat on my back or a bump of my shoulder, but he didn't stop, not once. And he didn't stop talking either, the long, drawn out idea font that was his normal chatter, making me feel centered and alive and whole.

When we got home we were both soaked, and he was shaking like his life depended on it, but he pushed me toward the shower with a smile and a light touch. And when I came out, clean and feeling like myself again, a little stoned and a lot sore, he was sitting on the couch in one of my sweatshirts and a Snuggy, watching Planet Earth like nothing had happened.

"I made nachos," he said, smiling at me as I sank down gratefully next to him. "They taste like shit, but they're pretty good too. You should try one, they'll give you gas like you wouldn't believe."

And yeah, okay, I admit it: that's when I realized I was in love with him.