Deck turned to him, grinning and glowing. “It gets better?” he asked, his voice low, unwanting to disturb the silence of this world.
Naim nodded, and cleared his throat, grateful for his ability to mask his face and feelings well. Rummaging through his messenger bag, he pulled out two slightly squished paper cups and handed one to Deck. “If you tell anybody about this, I will not only denounce you a liar, but I will also find a way to get you back into traction.” He stared hard at Deck, one eyebrow raised.
Deck nodded, eyes growing wider, and he did his best to wait patiently, the anticipation killing him. Naim gave him one more terse look, then reached into his bag and pulled out a large, shiny Thermos. Dropping the bag, he unscrewed the cap and poured hot, black coffee into the cup that Deck was holding out.
Deck blinked at the cup and stopped himself from telling Naim that he loved him.
Naim just smiled as he poured his own cup.
After a few silent minutes during which Naim stashed the Thermos, and Deck grimaced, more in apprehension than pain as he lifted his left arm and wrapped both hands around his cup, Naim spoke. “Are you cold?” he asked, taking a test sip of his coffee. Deck looked at him, and before he could answer, Naim made a face. “Don’t. It’s still too hot.”
“You’re… I don’t know what you are.” Deck stopped, then looked genuinely baffled. “What are you?”
Naim grinned, covering a speeding heartbeat and a hitch in his breath that he felt in every part of himself. “Right now, I’m crazy coffee guy that’s hoping you don’t end up with pneumonia. Are you cold?” he repeated.
Deck shook his head and laughed, not bothering to hide anything he was feeling at the moment. He took another deep breath of fresh air. “No,” he laughed. “I’m never gonna be cold again.”
Naim smirked. “Ahh, right. Remember that for your next miserable sponge bath.” Deck had grown notorious among the CNAs and eventually on the whole floor for bitching and whining about not being allowed to shower, instead suffering the indignities of what he called, “a damp rag and gross girl hands,” and always complaining that it was cold.
“Oh shit, are they gonna let me shower?” Deck’s eyes widened farther. He didn’t think he could contain this much happiness.
“Possibly.” Naim grinned over his coffee, testing the temperature again; they were good to go. He nodded at Deck. “It wouldn’t bother the stitches or the wounds at this point.”
“Oh Goddd.” Deck groaned, took a sip of his coffee, then groaned again. Please. “A shower, outside, coffee…my life is fucking awesome.”
Naim laughed. It really didn’t take much to make this man happy.
Deck grew quiet again, savoring his thoughts, his coffee, and the clear, shining snow. After a minute, he leaned and bumped his shoulder against Naim’s, and Naim responded by scooting closer to lean against Deck.
They sat in silence and watched the snow.
A few minutes passed in peace, the thoughts of both on little but each other and the pretty little bubble Naim had created for them. Deck finished his coffee in a final, happy gulp, shook the cup out onto the floor of the gazebo next to him, and dropped it into his lap. Naim reached out for it, but Deck closed his hand around Naim’s and twined their fingers together. The cup fell, and Deck turned in the chair to look at Naim straight on, swallowing hard at the overwhelming beauty of his face.
Rolling his left shoulder carefully, Deck lifted his hand, trying to be mindful but needing to touch Naim more. He slid his hand along Naim’s soft, stubbled cheek and dipped his fingertips into exquisite, inky hair, then drew them back to trail his thumb delicately along Naim’s full, red lower lip. His chest tightened, and his breath shortened.
Naim’s gaze fell from Deck’s to the hand that touched his face with such care, and he unconsciously licked his lips. He knew what was coming. Terrified and dazed, his eyes fell shut as Deck leaned forward, and he felt soft, warm lips against his in a breath.
At first, Deck simply breathed him in; mouths pressed together lightly, hands intertwined against his thigh, his other hand against Naim’s cheek, fingertips moving gently against the hair over his ear. Deck inhaled the taste of coffee, sweet flesh, and honey, and he smiled against Naim’s mouth, brushing their lips together. His heart thudded, and he felt Naim’s hand in his shake, and he opened his mouth against the perfect lips beneath his, sliding his tongue between them.
Naim shuddered. He hadn’t been kissed much in his life. Fucked, yes, but kissed, rarely, and it had been, he was embarrassed to think, years. He had never been kissed like this before. Slowly, naturally, carefully. Deck eased his mouth open with a gentle tongue, the hand on Naim’s cheek pulling him closer. Naim didn’t register or realize that his free hand had lifted to the back of Deck’s head and pulled; he was off balance and everything spun. Deck’s tongue swept against his, sipping and wandering, and Naim pressed closer to him, his strong hand gripping Deck’s head for dear life.
Deck breathed through his nose, refusing to break contact. He bit down gently on Naim’s full, maddening lower lip and whimpered in the back of his throat, leaning his forehead against Naim’s as he sucked and nibbled, and Naim choked out a quiet sob.
Releasing Naim’s lip, Deck leaned in eagerly and took his mouth again, full on, breath coming hard as Naim’s tongue met his, and he gripped and pushed Naim’s head harder, wanting somehow to consume him. Their mouths moved over each other’s, brushing, sucking, and tickling, tongues winding, stroking and pushing, teeth nibbling.
Naim’s hand moved up, trying to grip at Deck’s short, crisp hair.
Deck raised the hands linked on his leg, and freeing his, he shoved it into Naim’s hair with a tense, whining moan as it wound itself and fell into his hand, better, softer, warmer than he’d imaged so many times.
Naim tried to steady himself, leaning on Deck’s right shoulder, his mouth full of the taste of him—coffee, something sweet like Deck, and searing heat. He turned his whole body to face Deck, sitting on his left leg, his right unsteady and trembling as their knees touched. His fingers curled and dug into Deck’s coat when Deck’s teeth sank gently into his tongue, dragging along it, biting harder, pulling it back into his own mouth; then he sucked on it soothingly, Naim’s hand in his hair pushing his head closer.
Sitting in the hazy snow and cold, mouths pressed together, moving and straining against each other, a sheen of sweat breaking out across them both, and deep, heavy breaths panting in and out, there was nothing in the world but humid heat and the taste of flesh and want.
Naim finally broke the kiss, turning his face, needing to breathe, to stop the violent spinning.
Deck simply mouthed wet, soft kisses along his cheek, across to his ear, where his breath tickled and sent a shudder through Naim that made him whimper. Deck laughed—more breath than sound—and gently gripped Naim’s hair, turning his head back toward him, pressing their foreheads together. He ran his fingertips over Naim’s red, swollen lips.
Naim smiled and closed his eyes again.
Chapter Seven
“What did you do today?” Deck asked.
It was Saturday evening, and Naim knew Deck was in a bad mood. After an endless number of interviews and endless hours of watching video from the street cameras near the clinic, Laura had broken the news that they finally had in custody a suspect for the arson of the clinic.
The tapes showed a shaded figure in a low ball cap tampering with the lock on the back entrance reserved only for employees. He slipped inside, then less than twenty minutes later slipped back out. Five minutes later, 911 dispatch received the emergency call from Eli. They matched a tattoo on the figure’s hand to a local wannabe corner boy who went by the ridiculous street name of Play-Doh. Naim knew him from the neighborhood and the many suspicious injuries he’d treated the kid for at the clinic on multiple occasions.
Deck had told Naim that he and the others on the squad had also had to deal with Play-Doh on more than one occasion, be it c
hasing him off other kids, calling Laura, or on a few unfortunate occasions, fighting him themselves. The kid was a two-bit street punk who liked to think he was a high-rolling slinger.
Even before this news, Deck had hated Play-Doh. He rarely actively disliked any of the neighborhood kids, even the ones who were assholes more often than not. But Deck had caught Play-Doh harassing two girls on the street one day—grabbing at them and touching them and saying disgusting things to them. Deck gripped him up and lost his temper, making the mistake of asking the kid in a threatening manner, “How would you like it if I did that to you?” That had given Play-Doh an idea, and the next thing Deck knew he was being investigated for sexual assault. No one in the department believed it for a second. They all knew it was bullshit, but they were legally bound to investigate, and it caused many of the adults in the neighborhood to be wary of Deck. Luckily, the two girls came forward despite the threats of being branded snitches and supported Deck’s story. They’d walked back to the firehouse with him, and he’d called Freya to come drive them home. He’d never been alone with Play-Doh again.
It still took almost two years for the parents to start trusting him again, and some of them would never come back around.
Deck really hated that kid.
He was irritated, frustrated, and his time in the hospital was starting to get to him; it had been almost three weeks.
Naim looked down at him from where he was seated on the bed, always hesitating, thinking carefully before answering Deck’s questions. “Nothing very exciting. Ran some errands, went to the gym.” Their hands, as always, were wrapped in each other, and Naim was starting to get used to kissing Deck hello when he arrived, good-bye when he left, and I-don’t-know-what-this-is-but-I-don’t-care-just-keep-kissing-me in between.
He was also getting used to having anxiety attacks that had become so bad he broke down and asked Jen to write him a prescription for diazepam. He knew she wouldn’t ask him for an explanation, but she did tell him she expected him to ring Frannie every time he felt he had to take one. He didn’t. But he’d seen Frannie this morning, and they talked about Deck. Again. Naim struggled desperately with the ease and comfort and simple happiness this thing was bringing him. He felt that he’d lost control of himself somewhere down the line and had given in to a happiness that he knew wasn’t real; it would vaporize like an atomic storm as soon as Deck discovered who and what he really was. And he would be left in the rubble, completely destroyed—nothing remaining but a shadow burned into the ground where a man used to be, like photographs he’d seen of Hiroshima.
Frannie told him to calm down and get a grip. She kept going back to the same song she sang when he first told her about Deck; wasn’t it possible that Deck—or anyone for that matter—could care for him as a whole person, knowing all there was to know about him? Naim had been thinking about it all day; could he put a toe in the water? Was there some way of just trying?
“Actually, I saw my counselor this morning,” he blurted out. That was a pretty big toe in Naim’s world. Just so you know, I’m seriously broken and need a therapist to function, and sometimes I really don’t anyway. He looked down, unable to maintain eye contact.
“What, like a therapist?”
“Yeah.” Naim went still and tried not to get nauseous.
“On a Saturday morning?” Deck made a face. “That sucks. Don’t you ever sleep?”
Naim let out a small laugh, feeling a little crazy. “Occasionally. But it’s the best time for us both. It’s the only time I can manage to see her…regularly.”
“Hm. That makes sense.” Deck nodded, scooting closer to Naim. “That’s brave I think.”
Naim blinked, startled by Deck’s simplicity. Where was the judgment? The uncomfortable awkwardness and the silent, Why? What’s wrong with you? Masochistically, he pushed. “My schedule is nuts, but Jen’s let me have that time for the past couple of years.”
“Yeah, Jen’s awesome.” Deck ran a thumb along the inside of Naim’s wrist. “She mothers the shit out of you though.” He smiled. “That was awesome that time she tied your shoe for you.”
Naim huffed. “Jen mothers everyone.” He felt off center and confused. “How she manages to be nurturing and scary at the same time, I’ll never know.”
Deck laughed. “Well, she is married to Keller.”
Naim smiled, still feeling weak.
Deck spoke after a beat. “I saw a therapist once.” He nodded.
Naim could not have been more startled.
“Well, not once, but you know what I mean. About eight months actually.” He was thinking and not really looking at Naim. He moved their entwined hands to Naim’s knee.
Naim tried not to stutter, and Deck just continued speaking. “It was about six months after…after. I was having a lot of trouble.” He snorted. “I was getting into a lot of trouble. Drinking, fights, you know. Laura had to—Well, I kinda owe her.” He looked at Naim then, his astonishingly clear face completely open and honest.
Naim just nodded.
“Finally Lieb said I either had to talk to someone or he was going to put me on indeterminate suspension.” Deck made a snot face. “I was pretty fucked off about it, but he was right. It did kinda help. The guy told me I had problems dealing with grief.”
Naim laughed at that, and Deck joined him.
Naim turned as much as he could on the tiny bed until they were thigh to thigh, and balanced with a hand just above Deck’s knee. He felt warmth and muscle, and his stomach felt like jelly.
“Yeah”—Deck chuckled—“I was pissed that I paid someone to tell me that.” He shook his head. “But then he made me talk about shit, and it got a little better. I stopped the drinking and fighting anyways.” He looked at their hands and swallowed hard. “I probably should have stayed with it, but they say it doesn’t do you any good unless you’re willing to do all the hard work.”
Naim knew, and understood, the guilt that Deck carried.
“There was just some stuff I didn’t think I should change.” Deck swallowed again.
“Yeah. I know. I know what you mean,” Naim said quietly.
“They made me take medication too.”
Naim was wrong; he could be more startled. “They made you…?” the doctor in him demanded.
“Well no, they didn’t make me. But the guy said he ‘recommended it, strongly.’” Deck made another face. “He was like, ‘you’re really depressed,’ and I was like, ‘the fuck did you go to school, asshole?’”
Naim laughed.
“I was pretty angry,” Deck acknowledged, nodding. “I finally agreed though. Actually—” He frowned and cocked his head. “Goddamn, it was.”
“What?” This whole conversation confused Naim. He was disoriented and his world was upset, and it was okay.
Deck laughed. “Fucking Jen.” He shook his head, remembering. “She’s the one who finally came and talked to me, doing her whole mother hen thing. One minute I’m pissing and moaning with a drink in my hand, the next I have a prescription bottle and a glass of fucking water and Jen in my face telling me I ‘needed this.’” He was still laughing while Naim sat wide-eyed and stunned. “Fucking Jen, man…”
“She…” Naim blinked and laughed. “She really is something.” He shook his head too. “I’m starting to feel she thinks Zoloft is the answer to everything.” He frowned but laughed at the same time.
Deck snapped his head up to look up at Naim. “Oh shit.” Naim looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. “No way, you too?”
“Evidently, she took her psych rotation during internship pretty seriously.”
Deck laughed, and Naim marveled; they might as well have been talking about cars or footie or music. How could a conversation about therapy and antidepressants be so innocuous?
“Jesus, I hated that stuff. I mean, yeah, it really did help, but it sucked how…” Deck’s voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat. Naim knew what he’d been about to say, but instead of speaking Deck bent
his knee a little, moving his leg up into Naim’s hand.
Naim tried steering. “I know. I had a lot of trouble working the first couple of weeks.” He scrunched his nose. “I couldn’t operate. It was like someone stuffed my skull with…”
“Cotton and Bubble Wrap,” Deck finished for him, squinting and nodding.
Naim laughed again. “Yeah.”
“Yeah, I know. Took me five minutes to figure out how to work a standpipe one time. Keller still gives me shit about it. Fucker.”
Naim wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but he felt certain it wasn’t good. He knew exactly what Deck meant.
“That didn’t last too long, though. Jen nagged the shit out of me, all, ‘just give it time, two weeks, that’s all.’” He did his high-pitched girl voice, and Naim groaned. “So I did,” Deck sighed. “She was right. It did get better.”
“Gave me weird dreams,” Naim said, thinking of some of the images he still had written down. He was gently kneading at the muscles above Deck’s knee, vaguely processing tremendous size and strength.
“Yeah, me too. Like, fucking monsters and roller coasters and ladies underwear and shit.”
Naim blinked and raised an eyebrow. “Not…that weird.”
Deck laughed. “No, but the worst part was—” He stopped himself again.
Naim tried not to grin and failed. Sighing, he couldn’t look at Deck. “Yeah. I know.” He paused. “That.” He dipped his head and blushed.
“Ha.” Deck jumped and pointed at Naim as though he’d just come up with the right answer. “I know,” he shouted. “The fuck is that?” Deck was clearly delighted that Naim was kind of, sort of saying it, and this whole conversation was fucking weird but wonderful at the same time.
“It’s a pretty universal side effect,” Naim muttered. “It happens to most people who take any kind of SSRI-class antidepressant.”
“Yeah.” Deck squinted and nodded. “I’m not sure what you just said. All I know is that some days, I was ready to take a hammer to my dick.”
Smoke and Mirrors Page 11
