Vincent paused. Irregular heartbeats. That would explain the odd feelings he had been having in his chest that he hadn’t mentioned to anyone.
Noah’s hand tightened on Vincent’s shoulder. “Your mom’s here too, she flew in this morning, but you were asleep when she saw you. Do you want me to go and get her now?”
“Yes,” Vincent wrote.
***
“Want to try and speak now, Vincent?” the speech therapist asked.
Vincent nodded, and immense relief flooded through him at being able to move his head properly. He smiled at Noah and formed the word, ‘Noah,’ in his mind, but nothing happened. His smile slipped a little and he shaped the word clearly. ‘Noah.’ He could hear the word in his mind, but nothing seemed to be happening in his mouth. ‘Fuck.’
He reached for his whiteboard. “Can’t. Mouth won’t work.”
The speech therapist nodded. “Can you find any sounds you can make?”
Desperate searching through several languages found two sounds Vincent could make his mouth say, two vowel sounds, and he gripped the whiteboard marker hard in his frustration.
Vincent could feel the support radiating off Noah, and he ignored it and leant back on his pillows and closed his eyes. The despair he had been feeling since he had really woken up came back stronger than ever and he succumbed to it. He should have died, it would have been better than this. His right hand didn’t work, he couldn’t speak, and he felt he really would have been better off dying.
***
Noah leant wearily back in his plastic chair and looked at Ben beside him. He was growing to loathe these family conferences now. Nothing good ever came of them, it was time he should have been spending with Vincent.
The doctor shuffled through the papers and looked at the computer screen. “Depression after a stroke is very common,” he explained. “It’s mostly biochemical, a response to cell death in the brain. It will resolve with time and drug therapy. Until then, your job is to keep Vincent motivated for his rehab. Use whatever leverage you have to, just to keep him progressing.”
Frustration was building in Noah. Vincent sat stubbornly in the armchair in his room and refused to move. “C’mon, you’re booked for the hydrotherapy pool,” Noah cajoled.
Vincent didn’t move, just stared out of the window.
Noah knelt beside the chair and tapped the whiteboard on Vincent’s knees. “What is it?” he asked. “Can you tell me?”
Vincent’s hands stayed clenched in his lap, and Noah tiredly rested his forehead on the arm of the chair.
Time passed, and Vincent’s hand settled on Noah’s scalp, his fingers circling gently. Noah looked up slowly, carefully not dislodging Vincent’s hand, then knelt up and slid into Vincent’s arms. It was the first time they had really hugged since Noah had left to take Emily to school the day Vincent had collapsed. Noah stayed like that, kneeling beside Vincent’s chair and clinging to him. He could feel the white board digging into his side, could feel that Vincent’s right arm wasn’t gripping him. Vincent smelt wrong, of chemicals and illness and hospital food, and Noah thought that his heart might break. He pulled back and said, “You can’t give up. Emily is too young. You have to do this.”
Vincent nodded.
“I want you to come home.”
Vincent smiled, a little lopsided because he still didn’t have proper control over his mouth, and nodded again, then wrote ‘Home’ on the white board.
“Then get up and walk, you lazy bastard,” Noah said.
***
Vincent did get up and walk, balanced precariously between two bars in the physio gym, Emily dancing excitedly at the end of the bars, Noah behind him alternately urging him on and swearing at him under his breath. The morning Vincent took ten steps down those bars was one of the proudest of his life. He’d always been really physical, riding and hiking, always thrown himself into roles completely, but none of that had been any sort of preparation for the process of learning to walk again.
It didn’t take him long, not really, but each and every step was a fucking mountain to be climbed, every single time. He wanted to go home, and he wanted to go home walking.
***
Emily was so happy the day Vincent came home that she was almost jumping out of her skin, and Noah gave her a box to carry from the back of the car to keep her busy as he went around to help Vincent through the process of getting his legs out of the car and standing up. Sophie was still staying with them, and most of the time Noah had been pathetically grateful for her help, but this day was just for the three of them, so she had gone out for the day. He’d felt awkward asking, but she’d smiled sweetly and said, “Of course,” she had replied, and he’d been taken back to his childhood for a moment.
Vincent was showing the strain, his mouth pulling tight as he focused on walking, and Noah handed the keys to Emily as she bounded back to them so she could open the door.
Noah held the big wooden door open for Vincent, and the smell of lemon polish wafted out. Before the house had smelt of oil paints, and well worn shoes, and too strong coffee, but Sophie had changed that. She’d dusted and cleaned relentlessly, cooked proper meals every night, filled the freezer with food too. Emily had been taken for a haircut and made to clean her fingernails, and the space under her bed had been cleaned out. Emily had tried grouching to Noah about it, but Noah could tell she was secretly pleased at the order that had been installed. It even seemed to help her deal with the changes, given her one part of her life that wasn’t confusion and disorder.
Vincent grabbed at the wall in the hall with his left hand to steady himself, and Noah paused beside him, ready to wrap an arm around him if he needed it. “Do you want to try the stick again?” he asked Vincent.
Vincent’s head jerked back and he said, “Don wan no fuckin stick.”
There was a soft sound from Emily, and she dropped her head and bolted up the stairs, and her bedroom door slammed. Noah glared at Vincent for a moment, and took off after Emily.
She was crying on her bed when he opened her door and he sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked her curls. “Come here, sweetheart,” Noah said and Emily climbed into his arms. He held her while she cried, rocking her gently, and she said, voice muffled against Noah’s shirt, “This is supposed to be a happy day, why is Dad so angry?”
“Remember we talked about this? He’s angry at himself because his body doesn’t work,” Noah explained, closing his eyes briefly and resting his cheek against her curls. “He’s angry because he wants to be well, and he isn’t.”
Noah heard Vincent shuffle into the room, then his weight settled on the bed on the other side of Emily. Noah wondered how the hell Vincent had got up the stairs by himself. Vincent couldn’t climb stairs yet, and Ben and Noah had set up a temporary bedroom in the den for Noah and Vincent until he was recovered
enough to manage the stairs. He must have dragged himself up on his knees.
“’M sorry,” Vincent said, kissing Emily’s head. “Forgive me, love?”
Emily nodded and transferred her embrace to Vincent, clinging onto him tightly.
Vincent patted Noah a little clumsily with his right hand and said, “Come paint with me?” to Emily.
They worked out that the only way for Vincent to safely get back down the stairs was to sit down and bump down each step on his ass, which went some way to comforting Emily. She seemed to recover even more when she and Vincent set up easels in the family room and spent the afternoon painting together. Noah was more than happy just to sit on the couch and read and watch the pair of them.
Vincent was painting left handed, and seemed to be spreading paint around more than usual, but Noah didn’t care. Emily and Vincent could paint the family room walls with oil paints, and he’d still be happy just to have them both there.
He could see Vincent was tired by the set of his mouth, but Emily was so happy to have her dad home again, that he didn’t suggest Vincent rest. There would be time for that later, b
ut right now both she and Vincent needed the time together.
***
Later on people began to trickle through the house to welcome Vincent home, and he was surprised how pleased he was that they did. Sophie came home, and disappeared into the kitchen to make wonderful food smells. Ben and Nat came over with Trev, having flown down just to be there on the day Vincent came home. Ella came over, carrying a carton of beer and a bag of homegrown as a ‘Welcome Home’ present, assuring them it was consecrated dope, and therefore highly therapeutic.
Baby Trev rolled around on the floor under the dining table, and all the adults clambered over the drop sheets in the family room and admired the canvases that Vincent and Emily had started that day.
It was Ella that suggested the obvious. “Why don’t you do an exhibition of the work you do over the next few weeks?” she said.
Vincent’s face lit up. “Goo’ idea,” he said, lifting his beer bottle up to her. “Bu’ wha would I call it?”
It was Nat who lifted her head from where she was tickling Trev’ belly and making him squeal delightedly, and suggested a name. “How about ’Left’, since you’re painting left-handed for the first time?”
Vincent nodded. ‘Left’ was an excellent name. He had left the hospital, left behind his complacency about life. And this was what he had left. Noah and Emily, all his family. Painting.
Now, he could paint out the despair that he was still shaking, paint out his joy at being with Noah, paint out his anger. It was all going to be alright.
Noah shook Vincent’s shoulder gently, waking him. “Why don’t you go to bed, love?” Noah said as Vincent rubbed at his eyes and looked around the family room. “Everyone’s gone now, and mom is putting Em to bed.”
Vincent nodded and struggled upright on the couch. “’K. You too?”
“Yeah, I’m coming to bed with you,” Noah said quietly. “You don’t think Ben put a door on the den for nothing, do you?”
While Vincent undressed, Noah sat naked on the bed that occupied the middle of the den now all the armchairs had been pushed against the walls and regaled Vincent with the story of Ben’s appalled amusement at finding that he and Noah couldn’t just move the bed from the main bedroom downstairs because it was bolted securely to the wall studs of the bedroom.
“…Then Ben got all offended and inspected the head of the bed… He reckoned even though he was grownup and a father himself, he shouldn’t have to find out that his dad had a wild sex life…”
“No’ so wil’ now…” Vincent said, climbing under the quilt and holding his arms out for Noah.
Noah wrapped his arms around Vincent. “You think we’re going to have problems?”
Vincent nodded. “It’s the bloo’ pressure pills. I haven’ been har’ all the time in hospital. Don’ think I can be.”
Noah kissed him long and slow. “Bet I can still make you feel damned good.”
“Be’ you can,” Vincent agreed, stroking Noah’s cock with his left hand, getting used to the different grip.
“Besides,” Noah said, closing his eyes, “I used to fuck girls, and I remember that some of the time there was only one erection in the bed.”
Vincent laughed and bit Noah’s shoulder gently and whispered, “Fuck me.”
It was Noah’s turn to laugh. “Obviously you can talk clearly if you think you might get laid.”
Afterwards, Noah’s hand stroked Vincent’s face gently. “Are you alright?”
Vincent nodded, and managed to smile at Noah as he struggled to catch his breath. “’Mazing,” he said between gasps.
“It was amazing,” Noah agreed, and his fingers trailed across the new scar on Vincent’s throat. “I had no idea that would happen.”
“Nor me,” Vincent said, and he caught Noah’s fingers and lifted them to his lips to kiss them. “Was I lou’?”
“I heard you,” Noah said. “Hopefully no one else did. I had no idea you would come like that. I probably should have. After all, I was impotent for the entire duration of the pregnancy, and I seem to recall us having really hot sex then too.”
“You don’ min’?”
“Mind? What could I possibly mind, love?” Noah said, pulling the quilt up over them.
“If I can’ top you.”
Noah laughed out loud. “Let me see?” he said, pretending to consider. “Could I put up with fucking you forever? I don’t imagine it will be a hardship.” He was serious suddenly. “No, it’s not a problem. If you had never been able to have any sex again, it still wouldn’t have been a problem, as long as we got to hold each other every night.”
Emily was on her hands and knees, pawing through the discount bin at the artist’s supply shop when Vincent said quietly, “Look at her. It’s as if the universe drew a line between you and I, and at the midway point, there’s Emily. She paints like me, and leaps around like you.”
Noah looked at the grubby soles of her bare feet, and the rips in her jeans. “She looks like you.”
She grinned up at the pair of them, holding up two tubes. “Look, Dad,” she called out excitedly. “I found two cerulean blue.”
“The’ get them both,” Vincent called back to her, before looking at Noah. “And sounds like you. I’ve been wondering what our lives would have been like without her. Do you ever think about that?”
Noah nodded. “I would have married Kaycie.” He paused and looked from Emily to Vincent. “Now there’s a scary thought.”
Noah swallowed, and the memory of how close it had been, how close everything had been, swarmed through his brain. His own life, as he knew it now, and how it had balanced on a few specific moments that could have gone one way or another suddenly swamped his brain.
His genetics, and the memory of the shredded condom.
Kaycie’s awful anger at the truth and her driving off in his car leaving him without anything, then his own angry and frustrated, furious call to Vincent, who’d answered.
As these things all skittered through his mind he smiled at Vincent.
“I would have lived alone,” Vincent said. “There would have been nobody to come home and find me.”
Emily bounded up to her dads, arms full of tubes. “Can I really have all of these?” she asked excitedly.
“Sure sweetheart, you can have anything you want,” Noah said to Emily with a grin, turning back to look at his lover, his partner. “Anything at all, love, anything you want.”
Fin
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The Omega's Dearest Baby Page 17
