Smoke and Mirrors

by Lillian T. MacGowan

  “He…um…” She looked down at her phone again, scrolling through, Naim was certain, texts. Laura cleared her throat and shifted her weight. “Are you going to check on him soon?” she babbled out, looking at everything in the hallway but Naim.

  “I am.”

  “Okay, because he—” She stopped and waved a hand in front of her face as though to bat away a thought. “Ya know what? Never mind. Doc—Naim. You do whatever you need to do.” She shoved her phone back into her pocket.

  “Thank you, Laura,” he said with a gentle, grateful smile.

  She turned and strolled down the hall toward the lifts, and Naim took his seat behind the desk again and began charting.

  Deck jiggled his leg under the sheet, drummed his fingers against his thigh, and tried to crack his neck. Fuck…Ow. Bad idea. His head didn’t quite move that way yet. It tugged on his injured shoulder.

  And where the hell was he?

  It was past two, and Dr. Moreau still hadn’t shown up. A cute little nurse had come in early this morning and wakened him to change his bandages, telling him that the doctor would be there this morning to check on him. He may have asked once or twice, but whatever. After she left, he realized that she’d been trying to flirt with him with all the hair twirling and lip biting, but he’d been too preoccupied to notice.

  Deck didn’t quite get girls. Granted, he’d never had much reason to have to, but really, what was with all the hair twirling and lip biting? Men had lips, and you didn’t see them biting on them coyly when they were trying to get someone’s attention. They had hair too. Hell, look at his doctor. Goddamn he really wanted to be looking at his doctor right now.

  What time was it?

  Laura had finally graced him with her presence, half an hour late and after he’d had to text her a gajillion times. She said she had trouble getting away from her partner, but Deck didn’t buy it. Laura thought not telling him shit was the best way to handle him—because apparently, people thought he needed to be handled—so he knew how she was when she was being shady.

  And she was being shady.

  She’d probably gone to see his doctor. Probably, she told him not to come see Deck. Probably, she thought Deck would assault the man or, worse, say something monumentally stupid. Asshole.

  Laura, not the doctor.

  He heard sirens pass by a few streets over, and he craned his neck, thinking about his squad. Hearing the familiar, deep howl of the horn and estimating where the sound was coming from, he knew it was Ladder Company 33… and there was the ambulance, chasing right behind them. Probably wasn’t a fire. Probably a heart attack or a stabbing in one of the high-rise projects.

  Deck fidgeted against his pillows again. Everyone was at work today, even Freya. The twenty-four-hours-on, forty-eight-off tours put the two of them—same house, different squads—on duty on different days, but their captain had pulled Freya from her squad to replace Deck while he was out and fucking suspended. Apparently they needed at least one Viking barbarian on Squad Three. Whatever the fuck that meant. So now there was nobody to come see him, and he was bored, lonely, restless, and he wanted his doctor.

  Boy, did he want his doctor.

  He swore he was going to behave himself this time. He’d even gone so far as to call Peyton early this morning after the nurses left and make him stop at the hospital on his way in to the firehouse to bring Deck a pair of shorts. If the doctor was going to look at his back again, he didn’t want to accidentally flash him butt crack.

  There was sexy butt, and then there was not sexy butt.

  He got revenge on Laura for being shady by making her help him put them on. She was not happy. Heh. But when he told her why, she’d closed her eyes, scrunched up her face, turned her head, and yanked them up his legs and over his bare ass. Shady cow probably caught his nuts on purpose, he thought, cupping himself gently, trying not to remember his particularly unmanly squeak.

  What time was it?

  By 2:45, Naim had mustered the fortitude to check on Deck and was heading downstairs when his beeper went off with a 911 call. Both relieved and annoyed, he headed back up to the surgical ward, where Eli filled him in: thirteen-year-old male coming up from the ER with three stab wounds, one perforating his spleen. Scrubbing up, Marie joined them (kissing him on the cheek—what was with these women today?), and they went into surgery.

  Six hours later, the boy was in post-op minus his spleen, and Naim, Marie, and Eli were in the surgical lounge, decompressing. Naim and Eli knew the kid and his severe asthma from the clinic, so the surgery had been mentally and physically draining. Now that they were finished and he appeared to be stable and resting, Naim was feeling it.

  “You never texted me back,” Marie complained.

  “What?” Naim blinked and squinted. “Oh, right. Sorry. I was busy being up to my elbows in kid.” He gave her a sour look.

  “I know. I was standing next to you the whole time, crab-ass.”

  Eli was staring at the floor, but Naim could see that she’d provoked a smile from him.

  “I meant before this.”

  “I’m sorry, Marie. I meant to, I really did.” Naim knew she wasn’t giving him a hard time. This was just part of their post-op ritual. After Naim spoke with friends and family, the three of them would sit in the lounge, Eli would stare at the floor, and Naim and Marie would bicker. Only, Naim didn’t feel like bickering right now. He was feeling, for lack of a better word, soft. It had been an emotional day, but he wasn’t responding to it like he normally would: all tense, hard, and sarcastic. He was feeling…soft. Maybe it was the kid, maybe it was the strange teenager and Laura this morning, but he felt like he didn’t have the energy to fight with feelings tonight.

  “It’s okay. I know you still love me best.” Marie smiled but looked at him oddly.

  “I don’t know about best.” Naim downed the last of his coffee. “But I do love you, pet.” He stood up, kissed the top of her head, rubbed Eli’s shoulder, and walked out of the room.

  Deck was dozing when Naim entered his room. The ward was calm after visiting hours, and a football commentator nattered on a low volume from the television. Naim stood quietly at the foot of the bed, still in his scrubs, and looked at the man. In contrast to yesterday, his mouth was closed as he slept, but his chest still rumbled softly in his sleep. Four days’ worth of beard bristled on his face, dark and bronze, and his hair was a rumpled mess, pointing in every possible direction. His wide shoulders, well-muscled arms, and heavy torso took up every inch of space in the narrow hospital bed, and his ridiculously long legs caused his feet to dangle an inch off the edge.

  Yet he looked almost childlike in his sleep, with his pink mouth turned up slightly at the corners as though he was having a nice dream, his nose twitching occasionally and his hair tousled. JBF hair, he heard Marie say in his head.

  Shut it, you.

  As quietly as he could, Naim picked Deck’s chart up off its hook and began to look it over. He healed quickly. His lung capacity had improved, his temperature remained normal since yesterday afternoon, and there were no signs of infection. Naim also noticed that he’d been taking the Dilaudid since last night. He smiled to himself.

  It was then that he also noticed the soft rumbling from the bed had stopped. He stared blankly at the chart for a long moment, trying to buy himself some time.

  “Hi.” Deck’s voice came out sleep husky and soft.

  Naim looked up at him and took a deep breath. “Hello.”

  Deck cleared his throat, gingerly adjusting his position in the bed and staring at Naim. “I thought you would come earlier.”

  “I’d planned to,” Naim said as he moved toward the head of the bed, “but things got a little hectic.” It wasn’t a total lie. He’d only spent half the day avoiding this room. Naim placed the chart on the side table. “I’m going to raise the bed a bit, okay?” Naim knew he gave good professional voice, but now he struggled. He sounded too gentle in his own ears.

  “SURE. O
F COURSE, Doc, whatever you need to do.” Deck knew his expression was wide-eyed, and he reminded himself of his new mantra: brain then mouth, brain then mouth, brain then mouth. Fuck, the doctor was even more beautiful than Deck remembered.

  “How are you feeling?” Naim asked politely as the top half of the bed motored up, and Deck pressed the Off button for the TV, plunging the room into an intimate silence.

  “Good. Great!” Deck replied. “Well, not great great but…”

  Naim breathed out what could possibly have been interpreted as a laugh, and Deck grinned from ear to ear.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Your chart looks good. I see you, ah, you’ve been using the Dilaudid.” Naim glanced quickly at him.

  “Yeah.” Deck shrugged his good shoulder sheepishly. “It, uh, it turns out the stuff helps.” He let his eyes smile. “If I click it just once.” Don’t wink, dude. Do not. Wink. Deck winked. He groaned in his head.

  The fuck was wrong with him?

  Naim’s cheeks flushed, and his eyes darted away from Deck’s as he turned toward the wall for gloves, only to find an empty box. He turned back to Deck and frowned.

  “Right. We uh…” Naim looked at Deck, one eyebrow up, while Deck cringed. “We kinda used them all up making glove balloons,” he muttered. The corners of the doctor’s mouth quivered, and it seemed like he was struggling to look severe. “The nurse brought more. They’re”—Deck scanned the room—“they’re over there.” He pointed to the counter next to the sink. See? He was helping.

  Sighing, Naim walked over to grab the box of gloves.

  Fuck. Those scrubs were clingy. And thin. And clingy. And fuck, he was beautiful. Deck stared as Naim walked back to him and silently removed the empty box from the dispenser, replacing it with the new one. What were scrubs made of anyway? Fucking butterfly wings? Spiderwebs? God, he looked so good in them. Argh. Brain then mouth, dude, brain then mouth…

  “I like your scrubs.” FUUUUCK.

  Naim cleared his throat as he put the gloves on and, clenching his jaw, pulled down the shoulder of Deck’s gown. “Thank you. Lean forward, please.”

  Seriously, Deck thought. What the fuck was wrong with him? Maybe he should see a neurologist or something. Probably he had Tourette’s or something.

  “You don’t have Tourette’s, Deck,” Naim replied as he removed the bandage from the back of Deck’s shoulder and inspected the area.

  “What? How…? Oh shit, I said that out loud?” Deck gaped, legitimately shocked.

  “You did.” Naim prodded at Deck’s stitches. “How does that feel?”

  “Uh…” Deck frowned, still startled by his ability to always not shut up. “F—fine. Hurts a little.”

  “It’s supposed to.” Naim replaced the bandage and pulled the back of his gown up over the area, then nudged him to lean back. “And I don’t think you need a neurologist, Deck. I honestly think you just need a—”

  “A what?” Deck asked, surprised and delighted that the man was sort of engaging him in something resembling a conversation.

  “Nothing,” Naim muttered, scribbling on Deck’s chart. “Nothing.” He frowned.

  “Aw come on, Doc. Obviously I need all the help I can get here. What were you going to say?”

  Naim sighed and closed his eyes, clutching the chart to his chest.

  “A gag. You need a gag.”

  Deck didn’t respond. Instead, he stared, conscious of his wide eyes and his mouth hanging slightly open. After a moment, he slowly lifted his right arm across himself toward Naim and made a fist. Naim blinked, then gave in and reached out, resignation on his face.

  They fist-bumped.

  Laughing, Deck laid his arm back down. “Awesome, Doc.”

  “Thanks,” Naim replied drily as he leaned over to check out…to inspect Deck’s chest. Wound. Chest wound.

  Deck couldn’t have been more thrilled. The tension seemed to be dissipating a bit, and even better, his new favorite person was revealing a sense of humor. And he probably, maybe even didn’t totally hate him or think he was a psycho nut pervert whack job. Deck took a chance.

  “Look, Doctor, I’m…I’m really sorry about yesterday.” He watched Naim’s now stoic face as he removed the bandage and wordlessly looked over the area. “I…um…” How did people do this? He’d never had to step up like this before. People always just let him slide when he said stupid shit and acted like a goon. He was cute, right? Wasn’t it endearing? Deck sighed, feeling like an idiot. “I’m just sorry is all. If I offended you or anything. I mean. Laura says sometimes I think I’m a lot cuter than I really am.”

  Naim stood up straight and laughed out loud. “I like that woman more and more all the time.”

  Deck looked at him and smiled hugely. The doctor laughed. He actually made the doctor laugh. Okay fine, he hadn’t meant to, but whatever. He chuckled himself, absolutely delighted.

  “It’s okay.” Naim leaned back over, still chuckling. “Although you really shouldn’t go around poking fun at people’s names, Deck.” He glanced up and raised an eyebrow.

  “I know, Doc. I know. I’m really sorry.” Deck tried not to shudder at the way this man said his name. “You’ve probably heard that Island line before, huh.” He cringed as Naim taped him back up and raised his gown.

  “Three or four thousand times, yes.”

  Deck cringed again. So much for comedy gold.

  Naim adjusted Deck’s gown, slid the gloves off, and stuffed them into the waste bin on the wall.

  “Can I, um…ask you something?” Deck hesitated as Naim made notes in his chart.

  Naim turned back to him and raised his eyebrows.

  “How…uh…” Deck tried to choose his words carefully, desperately wanting to be inoffensive. “How did you get that name? Moreau, I mean.” So far, so good. The doctor’s eyes were on the floor, but he didn’t look like he wanted to punch Deck or run away or stab him or anything. “You look…I mean you don’t look French. Not that I know what French looks like.” The doctor didn’t raise his eyes, but he did raise a brow. Okay, move it along, Deck. “I was thinking, because I know your first name and that’s not French…so I just…wondered how you got a…French…name.” He stopped. That was probably for the best.

  Naim was silent for a bit before answering.

  “I was born in… I’m Palestinian,” he started. “I wasn’t quite two years when my parents were…killed and the Croix Rouge claimed me as a refugee. They said there was no one else, and I only knew my first name, so they gave me the name Moreau.” Naim took a deep breath and glanced at Deck. He looked at the floor again. “It means ‘son of the Moor.’”

  Deck’s heart responded, soft and kind. “That’s kind of insulting.”

  Naim snorted softly. “Yeah. Kind of. They insisted there was no way to find out my real name. That there was no one to ask and no one was looking for me, so they just took me back to France with them and slapped the name on me.” He hesitated again for a moment. “I’ve never told that to anyone but Jen. I don’t know why I would…”

  They were silent for a minute. It was late. Deck’s gaze had never left his face, and he waited for Naim to finally look up again.

  “My brother was killed in a fire at a chemical plant three years ago,” Deck blurted out. “I opened a door too fast and almost got blown away by a backdraft. Adam shoved me out of the way, and…the fire ate him alive.” His voice caught.

  Shit. Why had he said that? He didn’t talk about Adam. Ever. What was he doing? Who was this guy?

  “That’s why you do the things you do,” Naim almost whispered.

  Did the doctor know he was often reckless on the job?

  “That’s why you went in after me.”

  Deck could hear the clock on the far wall ticking, and neither of them seemed able to tear his eyes from the other.

  After a minute Deck spoke, his voice low. “Maybe. Sometimes. But I went after you because you were trapped in there. And you were brave. You were really…bra
ve.”

  Deck could lose himself in this man. Drown and burn and die and not care at all.

  “Thank you,” Naim said, taking a deep breath and breaking the eye contact and the long moment. He uncrossed his arms and walked to the foot of Deck’s bed, replacing the chart on its hook.

  Deck blinked, breathed heavily, and shook his head. He tried to think of something to say. Even something inappropriate. He didn’t care. Just something.

  “When uh…when do you think I’ll be back on my feet?” Wow. That was completely normal. He blinked harder.

  “Two weeks.”

  “Really?” That was awesome. So much better than he had hoped for.

  “No.” Naim looked at Deck from the foot of the bed like he was an idiot. “But that was for making fun of my name.” His eyes twinkled as Deck deflated completely.

  “So…you’re kind of an asshole?” Deck pouted, a little glad he couldn’t cross his arms.

  “Kind of. Sometimes.” Naim grinned, and even while he pouted, Deck felt every part of himself soar. He couldn’t help it. His mouth drew into a broad smile. He was thoroughly enchanted.

  Naim headed for the door, and Deck panicked a little. “Doc. Wait!” Naim stopped and looked at him. He still laughed. “Are you…are you coming back?” Deck asked without caring how hopeful he sounded.

  “I—” Naim hesitated. “You’re ready to start rehab. You don’t need a surgeon anymore.” He had his hand on the door handle, but he looked at Deck from across the room.

  “Okay.” Deck nodded slowly. “But…are you coming back? Naim?”

  Naim took a shallow breath and walked out.

  Chapter Four

  He was on a motorbus of all things, just entering the waterfront suburbs of Marseilles. He felt excited, almost happy but anxious too. There would never, ever be any circumstances, imaginary or otherwise, under which he would be happy to be entering that fucking town.

  But in the dream he was.

  As he came into the dream, he was pointing things out and excitedly describing places and neighborhoods to the man behind him—to Deck. They weren’t there together. They hadn’t been traveling together; as it goes in dreams, they just happened to be on the same motorbus. Deck had his own reasons for visiting Marseilles, but he was listening to Naim and asking him questions about the things they were seeing.