a million times
during that first case. This wasn't going to be something they found on
paper.
"Yeah, yeah, okay. But if he gives you names, call me ASAP and I'll start running them."
"You got it."
Quiet descended as Leah left, the last of the team that was getting
too damned accustomed to working over Greg's store. The only thing left
to do was clean up the damned elevator button so nothing ambushed Greg
any more than it had to.
So he stood there with an alcohol-soaked cloth, swabbing. Avoiding going up there and telling Greg he had jack shit.
The elevator started rumbling, the ancient thing rattling and
squeaking and rumbling. When it opened, Greg was there, wearing a pair
of soaked shorts, eyes huge. "Artie?"
"Hey. Yeah. I was just." Procrastinating. Hiding his fucking
disappointment. "We got it all cleaned up, I think." He stepped inside,
holding himself away. "Except me. I need to wash up."
"Okay. Okay, upstairs. Shower. I ... I made Duke a litter box and a little bed and brushed him and fed him and he seemed okay."
"He'll be fine. You didn't feed him anything with a wrapper, right?"
He tried for humor. Fell short, but oh, well. The elevator took
forever. He wanted to touch Greg, but not with blood and all on his
hands.
"No. I fed him cream and warmed up tuna fish. I didn't try to eat. I
just took a shower and did normal stuff." Greg jabbered, fluttered, got
the elevator door open, and herded him into the apartment. "Put your
clothes in the washer here, and I'll turn the water on for you and open
the door."
"Thanks, babe." What else could he say? Suddenly he was bone damned
tired. Exhausted. He stripped right off and padded naked to the shower.
The stark white bathroom was lit up—lights and candles and
incense—the steam already starting to billow from the shower. "I
tried it with the lights down. I couldn't. This is better. Hop in.
There's soap and everything."
Yeah. He stepped right in, nudging the soap off the shelf with his
elbow and catching it, starting to scrub. He'd take the fucking skin
right off before he felt clean, though.
It wasn't long before Greg's hands moved on his back, a soft, pained
groan mingling with the splash of the water. He went to turn around,
but Greg stopped him. "Don't. Not yet. I just need to help you get
clean. I need to know you're okay."
There was pain in Greg's voice, tears.
God. Artie stood there, letting Greg touch him, wash him. "I'm
sorry, babe. I'm fine. It's—" He stopped. It wasn't okay. Not one
damned bit.
"I know. I know. Shh. You don't have to lie. I'm right here."
"Oh. Greg." He didn't lean, not on the slick tile, but he let Greg
touch and soothe and heal something inside. Eventually Greg turned him
around, pulled him close and just held on, face hidden in his throat.
Artie squeezed right back, just letting the water wash over them. He
needed the contact, the closeness. It didn't fix it, didn't make the
horror right, but it made things better, made the hollowed-out
sensation in him easier.
The water ran cold before they were ready to move, and they
staggered out, grabbing towels and mopping off. Artie headed straight
for his chair, pulling Greg down with him. Greg settled the quilt
around them, tucking them into the space, making it warm and dark and
quiet.
Quiet was good.
Nuzzling Greg's throat was better.
"I'm sorry, man."
"We didn't do it. We're okay." Greg relaxed, snuggled in. "Even Duke's okay."
"Duke's probably way better than we are. He had cream." They should eat. He just didn't feel like it at all.
"We'll eat later. Fruit and pancakes. I just want this now."
"Me, too." Stroking Greg's back, he loved on him, held him. There'd
be time for everything else later. For right now, he wouldn't think.
Neither of them would.
Chapter Eight
The phone rang at her desk and Virginia raced to reach it, heels
click-clacking as she slid across the newsroom, hurrying as she stared
at the clock. Two P.M. Christ. Christ. Don't hang up. Don't hang
during that first case. This wasn't going to be something they found on
paper.
"Yeah, yeah, okay. But if he gives you names, call me ASAP and I'll start running them."
"You got it."
Quiet descended as Leah left, the last of the team that was getting
too damned accustomed to working over Greg's store. The only thing left
to do was clean up the damned elevator button so nothing ambushed Greg
any more than it had to.
So he stood there with an alcohol-soaked cloth, swabbing. Avoiding going up there and telling Greg he had jack shit.
The elevator started rumbling, the ancient thing rattling and
squeaking and rumbling. When it opened, Greg was there, wearing a pair
of soaked shorts, eyes huge. "Artie?"
"Hey. Yeah. I was just." Procrastinating. Hiding his fucking
disappointment. "We got it all cleaned up, I think." He stepped inside,
holding himself away. "Except me. I need to wash up."
"Okay. Okay, upstairs. Shower. I ... I made Duke a litter box and a little bed and brushed him and fed him and he seemed okay."
"He'll be fine. You didn't feed him anything with a wrapper, right?"
He tried for humor. Fell short, but oh, well. The elevator took
forever. He wanted to touch Greg, but not with blood and all on his
hands.
"No. I fed him cream and warmed up tuna fish. I didn't try to eat. I
just took a shower and did normal stuff." Greg jabbered, fluttered, got
the elevator door open, and herded him into the apartment. "Put your
clothes in the washer here, and I'll turn the water on for you and open
the door."
"Thanks, babe." What else could he say? Suddenly he was bone damned
tired. Exhausted. He stripped right off and padded naked to the shower.
The stark white bathroom was lit up—lights and candles and
incense—the steam already starting to billow from the shower. "I
tried it with the lights down. I couldn't. This is better. Hop in.
There's soap and everything."
Yeah. He stepped right in, nudging the soap off the shelf with his
elbow and catching it, starting to scrub. He'd take the fucking skin
right off before he felt clean, though.
It wasn't long before Greg's hands moved on his back, a soft, pained
groan mingling with the splash of the water. He went to turn around,
but Greg stopped him. "Don't. Not yet. I just need to help you get
clean. I need to know you're okay."
There was pain in Greg's voice, tears.
God. Artie stood there, letting Greg touch him, wash him. "I'm
sorry, babe. I'm fine. It's—" He stopped. It wasn't okay. Not one
damned bit.
"I know. I know. Shh. You don't have to lie. I'm right here."
"Oh. Greg." He didn't lean, not on the slick tile, but he let Greg
touch and soothe and heal something inside. Eventually Greg turned him
around, pulled him close and just held on, face hidden in his throat.
Artie squeezed right back, just letting the water wash over them. He
needed the contact, the closeness. It didn't fix it, didn't make the
horror right, but it made things better, made the hollowed-out
sensation in him easier.
The water ran cold before they were ready to move, and they
staggered out, grabbing towels and mopping off. Artie headed straight
for his chair, pulling Greg down with him. Greg settled the quilt
around them, tucking them into the space, making it warm and dark and
quiet.
Quiet was good.
Nuzzling Greg's throat was better.
"I'm sorry, man."
"We didn't do it. We're okay." Greg relaxed, snuggled in. "Even Duke's okay."
"Duke's probably way better than we are. He had cream." They should eat. He just didn't feel like it at all.
"We'll eat later. Fruit and pancakes. I just want this now."
"Me, too." Stroking Greg's back, he loved on him, held him. There'd
be time for everything else later. For right now, he wouldn't think.
Neither of them would.
Chapter Eight
The phone rang at her desk and Virginia raced to reach it, heels
click-clacking as she slid across the newsroom, hurrying as she stared
at the clock. Two P.M. Christ. Christ. Don't hang up. Don't hang
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