by SE Jakes
“Oh yes, we are.”
He turned slowly. Tom’s hands were fisted too, and this would be a massive brawl if Prophet let it start.
Tom said carefully, “I know how hard this has got to be—”
“Don’t you dare give me that pity shit.”
“Why would I pity you, Proph? This isn’t a death sentence.”
Wrong thing to say. And instead of picking Tom up and throwing him against the wall, Prophet picked up the coffee table, letting whatever was on it slide off before throwing it against the wall. It broke apart, the wood splitting, leaving a satisfying dent in the wall.
Before he could look for other things to throw, he heard Remy say, “I guess this isn’t a great time.”
“You’re really losing your sight?” Remy asked, and how was it possible the kid was taller than the last time Prophet had seen him, which was maybe three weeks ago? He was sitting at the kitchen table, and Prophet was making him a couple of sandwiches while Tom was on the phone in the other room, trying to get through to Remy’s mom. When Prophet glanced over his shoulder at him, Remy offered, “Dude, I couldn’t help but hear.”
“Yeah, I am.” All the fight was drained from him, and there was no reason to take it out on Remy anyway.
“That sucks.”
Prophet put the plate down, then ran a hand over Remy’s hair. “That too.”
“I guess I should’ve knocked instead of using the key.” Remy picked up the sandwich and basically began to inhale it, as if no one had fed him for weeks.
“I gave it to you to use.” And if he hadn’t been throwing tables, he’d have seen Remy entering the building easily enough. “It’s not a problem.”
Although Remy running away from New Orleans to upstate New York? Kind of a problem.
He sat down next to Remy, but before he could say anything else, Remy told him, “You’re not going to make me go back.”
“Remy . . .”
Remy held up his hand. “No, that wasn’t a question. You’re not going to make me, and nothing you say will work. And if you try to take me there by force—”
“Force? Where are you getting this shit?”
“I’ll keep coming back like a bad penny.”
Prophet stared at him, his voice firm, because he needed Remy to believe him. “You’re a lot of things, Rem, but a bad penny isn’t one of them.”
“I want to stay here with you and Tom.”
Prophet glanced at him. He was so steadfast in his insistence, but then, just for a second, something akin to fear skittered across Remy’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just . . . is that going to ruin plans to kill yourself?” he asked seriously, and Prophet saw the fear in the young man’s face again, and realized it was more for Prophet than for himself.
“No. That dick already did that.” He pointed in Tommy’s direction—still on the phone, his expression tight with anger.
“I won’t be any trouble. I’ve got money. I’ll pay you back. I’ll even stay at a hotel or something and stay out of your way.”
Prophet stared at him. “Is that really what you want?”
Remy bravely tried to meet his gaze, but after a second, he hung his head and shrugged. “Not really.”
“So try again.”
Remy sighed. Looked up. “I want to stay with you and Tom. Dad would’ve wanted it. I mean, if I can’t, I’ll go back to Della, but I thought . . . it seemed like you didn’t mind talking to me.”
Prophet smiled. “I didn’t. I don’t do much these days that I don’t want to do. And I don’t do things out of guilt or pity.”
“Okay.”
Prophet leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I think I figured out a way to keep you here. Or between here and Della’s, depending on where my work and Tom’s work takes us.”
“Yeah?”
“We’ll take care of it, me and Tom, okay? Put your shit in the free bedroom. But first, text your mom, tell her you’re fine, because you know she doesn’t believe Tom.”
Remy sighed. “She’s going to send the cops here.”
“Trust me—cops don’t come here.”
“I can go to a lawyer and get emancipated,” Remy said as he touched the screen so fast his fingers seemed like blurs. “There. Satisfied?”
“Totally.” Prophet stared at him. “And you really want to stay here?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll stay here.”
Remy opened his mouth and closed it. He obviously hadn’t expected it to be so easy. Because it never had been for this kid, or for Prophet or for Tommy and goddammit, someone had to change that shit.
By the time Remy’s mom stopped screaming at Tom, Prophet had already cooked half the food in the fridge for Remy and had ordered a couple of pizzas, just to be on the safe side.
Remy reminded Prophet of Blue, the way he ate. Except he could actually out-eat Blue. And he was already as tall as Blue. At sixteen.
“I’m going to need to work overtime to feed you.”
Remy grinned and then sobered.
“Hey, it’s a joke. It’s all right.” Because he did not want this kid to feel like a burden—Remy was the furthest thing from it.
“I know you said it was all right. But what about Tom? Is he going to say yes because he feels guilty and shit?”
“About your dad?”
“Yeah. And about being an asshole to you about your eyes,” Remy said seriously.
“Ah, Rem, he wasn’t. Trust me. And yeah, Tom’s got a lot of guilt about your dad.”
“From high school?”
“Yeah, that. And then all the shit that went down when Etienne was killed. But he wants you here.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” Tom broke in, “he knows me like the back of his hand. It’s inconvenient at times, but he’s right, Remy.”
Remy stared at him. “You’re the other one.”
“The other one what?” Tom asked, trying to look innocent, even under Prophet’s investigatory gaze.
“The other one sending me money every month.” Remy shrugged. “It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out, so I hope you guys didn’t think you were being all stealthy or something.”
But Tom turned to Prophet. “You were the other one, so don’t even start.”
“I never told you that.”
“You just did.”
Remy looked between them. “You two always like this?”
“Yes!” they said in unison.
“Okay. S’cool. I kind of like it.” Remy grabbed another sandwich. “Don’t stop on my account. Just let me know when the pizza comes.”
Tom smiled at Prophet, who smiled back. A quiet moment of peace passed between them, even though the discussion they’d been having was far from over. Everything had suddenly got really complicated . . . and somehow better at the same time. “You could’ve told me, Proph. We could’ve just sent it together.”
“I saved the money,” Remy interjected and pulled out an envelope full of cash. “I figured . . . if I came here and you didn’t have to spend any more money on me . . . I could use this for a while and then—”
“That’s yours, Rem,” Prophet said firmly. “For you to do whatever the hell you want with. And I’ll spend my money any way I goddamn please. On you. On him. On whateverthefuck you want.”
Tom looked at Remy and shrugged. “He gets like this a lot. Just roll with it.”
Remy smiled and went back to eating.
Four days and nights later, Prophet was still sleeping with Tom watching over him. Or not sleeping for very long at all, as the case may be. But Tom would wake him, Prophet would come back to reality, and then he’d stay up with Tom, watching movies. Both of them were also looking through the clippings, trying to pinpoint exactly when John and Sadiq might make their next move, but they didn’t talk about it much.
They were both trying to pretend things were normal when they one hundred percent weren’t. It was th
e first time since they’d met that they’d gone without sex when they weren’t apart. Because normally, it would’ve been a constant, clawing need they scratched as often as humanly possible. Tom would’ve, but Prophet was actively avoiding it, even though it killed him to do so.
There were distractions—Prophet’s near-constant nighttime flashbacks, ensuring their need to sleep in shifts, plus there was Remy to take care of, to take him back and forth to the tutor, to make sure none of what Prophet was embroiled in could touch the kid.
But really, they were just damned good excuses, and both he and Tom knew it.
They both knew why, so Tom didn’t push him, and that relieved Prophet and made him feel worse all at the same time. Knowing why they weren’t having sex and not having sex were two different things entirely.
Now, he checked the monitor he’d activated for Remy’s bedroom on the first floor. The building was alarmed, and while he didn’t want to invade the teenager’s privacy, he needed to make sure he was keeping Remy safe.
“He’s sleeping?” Tom asked. He was in the doorway of the living room, and Prophet turned to look over his shoulder.
“Yeah, out like a light. And I got more from the PI today. It shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Good, because we don’t have much longer before his mom calls the police. Which at this point, she’s got every right to do.” Tom ran a hand through his dark hair, and that small motion somehow made the deep freeze on his sex drive melt, for the first time in what seemed like forever.
But instead of getting up and going over to Tom, taking him to bed, he shifted in his seat and asked, “You’re really okay with this? With us bringing Remy to live with us full-time?”
“I’m the one who brought it up,” Tom reminded him, and yes, Prophet remembered that discussion on the ride home from New Orleans months earlier. He’d been pondering the possibility, but Tom had given voice to it and from there, the plan moved forward. Neither of them had told Remy, in the event that something went wrong—they didn’t want to get his hopes up and knew he could come to them in two years anyway. That he could spend a lot of time with Della in the meantime.
They’d never expected him to show here. Okay, maybe Prophet did, a little.
Tom continued, “Etienne would’ve wanted this. And while growing up with Della would be great for Remy . . .”
“He can visit her and New Orleans,” Prophet said firmly. “With us.”
“True. Anyway, there’s still a lot to figure out.”
Tom wasn’t just taking about stuff with Remy. Prophet turned his attention back to the table where the clippings had become commonplace. He didn’t even bother to put them away anymore. Remy knew he was working, and he never intruded on this stuff. Give him some art supplies and he spent hours painting and drawing, listening to loud music and generally just being a kid. Which was exactly what he was supposed to do. “He’s figuring things out just fine.”
“What about us, Proph?”
Tom was still behind him, like he knew Prophet couldn’t deal with a face-to-face. And fuck, he knew Tom was talking about his eyes, and their future, because it was all rolled up together now. And goddammit, that ball was completely in Tom’s court, not his—why couldn’t Tom see that?
Because he doesn’t want to—not yet. Because it was easier to pretend that all the issues were on Prophet and not on the fact that Tom had to process everything and make some decisions for himself. “I guess we’ll figure things out too.”
“Easy enough, right?” Tom’s voice was light, but there was a slight edge to it.
“There’s not much for me to figure out with my sight, Tommy.” Prophet bowed his head a little as he heard Tom move forward.
And then Tom was sitting next to him at the table, asking, “So Doc and Phil know? John too?”
“Yeah.”
“And me.”
“And you,” Prophet confirmed. “LT didn’t know at first—neither did Dean, until a couple of years ago. I reached out to him for resources. Technology.”
And seeing Dean doing what he wanted, on his own terms, gave Prophet hope.
Rescuing him, seeing the panic on his face reminded Prophet that pretending things could be the same, pretending that he was going to be the same man who could do the same things after he’d gone blind, wasn’t worth it—it could put everyone associated with him at risk if he even tried to keep working.
Tom asked him now, “What about your team?”
Prophet glanced up at him, admitted, “I need to tell them—but Mal knows. I wasn’t ready to talk about it with the others. With Mal . . .” He rubbed his throat. “There’s an experimental op. His doc wants to try it. Mal says he will, when he can afford to stay in one place for an extended rehab and recovery. Four months. But that’s not really why he’s putting it off.”
Tom processed that for a long moment, and then his eyebrows raised. “For you?”
Mal would say that all they needed to do was wait until Hook lost his hearing completely and then they’d be their own personal version of See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil. The guy was so fucking twisted . . . and Prophet couldn’t deny that, and the way he dealt with Prophet’s eyes gave him more than a measure of comfort. “He’ll never try it unless there’s something for me. And there’s not. So I’ve got to find a way to make him.”
“And find a way to tell the others.”
“That too.”
“Cillian?”
Prophet finally turned to him. “I see a doctor not on EE’s payroll. Not on my insurance. But that doesn’t mean Cillian doesn’t know everything.”
Tom nodded. “You coming to bed soon?”
“Yeah.”
“Wake me up, okay?”
Prophet didn’t even bother pretending. “I will.”
Tom rubbed his shoulder, started to walk away. Prophet reached behind him and grabbed Tom’s wrist, but he didn’t turn to face him again. “When I was captured . . .” he began, “they blindfolded me. For days. I didn’t panic. I forced myself to deal with it. To use my other senses. Because I knew, one day, that’d be all I’d have.”
“And now every time it goes dark for you, you can’t stop panicking,” Tom said quietly.
Tom backed up to look at him, and Prophet didn’t let go of his wrist. “I know you accept this, Tom. For now. But there’s going to come a time—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Now that I want to talk, I can’t?”
“That’s right. Because you’re wrong.”
Prophet didn’t push it, let go of Tom’s arm. He knew what was going to happen anyway, so why fuck things up for the time they had left. They’d had eight months. And they had more time, but it wasn’t going to be enough. Never. But he’d have memories, and he’d finish this job, and then . . .
And then.
Things had clicked into place rapidly after his talk with Prophet—Phil wanting Prophet to take over EE. Doc’s closeness. Prophet’s claustrophobia with the casts. And John, who’d betrayed Prophet in more ways than Tom wanted to begin to count.
After a really restless night for both of them, Tom left early in the morning to check in at EE. He’d mentioned to Phil last week that he’d probably need a long leave of absence and Phil hadn’t seemed surprised. But his paychecks kept coming in, so he figured actually going in was the right thing to do.
When he pushed through the doors, Natasha greeted him warmly. Asked about Prophet. So did pretty much everyone.
By the time he got to Phil’s office, the anger inside of him had built up—probably more at Prophet than Phil, but Phil was no angel in any of this.
Phil’s office door was partially open, and he looked up from his desk when Tom—having forced down the urge to barge right in—gave a small knock on the doorjamb.
“Tom, about time you showed.” Phil waved him in. “How’s Prophet?”
“How’s Prophet?” he asked, his voice a dangerously rough tone that even he recognized as a b
ad sign.
Phil didn’t miss it either—he stilled, then pushed his seat back and stood, his palms down on the desk. “What’s the problem?”
“I know, Phil—about his sight.”
Phil looked pained. “It wasn’t my place to tell you.”
“And I wouldn’t have wanted to hear it from you. Trust me.”
“Then we have no issue.”
“Oh, we’ve got a goddamned issue. Because it was one thing for you to force Prophet out because you felt he’d pushed it too far, when that’s exactly the reason you hired him in the first place, but a whole other thing to promise a man a soft place to land after he loses his sight and then take that away from him too.” He was getting louder and didn’t care. “You ripped the fucking rug out from under him. You fucking betrayed him when he needed you most.” Phil opened his mouth but Tom put a hand up. “Don’t fucking justify it. You took his biggest fear, and you turned it around on him. You betrayed him. You’ll never have his trust again.”
“Don’t you dare put this on me. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I’m looking out for Prophet’s best interests. You?”
Phil raised his hand and pointed across the desk, punctuating the air with his finger. “Don’t you dare question me, boy. I’ve been there with Prophet for a hell of a lot longer than you, and I’m betting I outlast you.”
“You think putting him in charge of EE’s going to save him when he can’t see?”
“Yeah, I think it’ll save him. I also think he can save countless lives with his experience. I won’t let him put that to waste.”
“You won’t let him? You think you can order him to be productive?” Tom asked. “You’re fucking with his life. His mind. Like he doesn’t have enough of that in the first place.”
“What, the search for his long-lost teammate? Such fucking bullshit. He should’ve let go of that a long time ago, Tom. I thought you’d be able to talk some sense into him.” The veins in Phil’s neck were standing out.
Tom took a step forward, but a strong hand on his shoulder pulled him back. He turned to swing and saw it was Doc. He put his hand down, and Doc simply led him out of Phil’s office and into his empty examining room down the hall. The infirmary was one floor down, along with Doc’s office. But this room was for the quick visits and physicals.
