by SE Jakes
Doc closed the door behind him and said, “Go ahead.”
“Go ahead, what?”
“Say all the things you can’t say to Prophet.”
“Yeah, I know you knew about his eyes before me, Doc. Go ahead and gloat about how close you two are,” Tom snarked.
Doc sighed. Stared up at the ceiling and muttered what sounded like a prayer before turning his attention to Tom and saying, “I left a job I loved because I knew I wouldn’t pass the medical exams to stay a SEAL. I knew I might for a year, if I was lucky, but one good shot to my knee, and I’d be lucky to make it with a cane. And I took stock and knew I didn’t want that. So I left. In my fucking prime. I finished med school, and I’ve made it my job to stop assholes like me from ruining their motherfucking lives by sticking with something long after their bodies can handle the punishment.”
Tom was about to answer him—something obnoxious—when he realized . . . “You’re pissed you can’t do that for Prophet. It’s not something you can put off by telling him to stop working.”
Doc’s jaw clenched. Tom sagged against the exam table. He pulled himself up and sat, hands dangling between his thighs. “He doesn’t believe I’m going to stay. Said he knew my first reaction would be acceptance. But once I thought about it—really thought about it . . .”
He wouldn’t even say it out loud. Instead, he announced fiercely, “I’m not going to lose him. And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” Doc said. “Now tell me all the things you can’t tell Prophet.”
“You first,” Tom shot back.
“I’m worried he’s only going to live for you. That you’re the only reason he’ll stick around. And while that’s a great and powerful thing, it’s not enough, Tom. He’s got to want to stick around because he’s got shit to do.”
Doc’s words echoed inside Tom’s head. “I can’t think about this, not until after . . .”
He stopped. Glanced at Doc, who said, “I know about it, Tom. Phil knows some, I know more, but neither of us knows the full extent of what’s happening. But it’s fucked Prophet up something good. I never thought he’d be able to open up to anyone the way he has to you.”
Tom stuck his hands in his pockets, feeling fucking useless. “I don’t know what the fuck to do, Doc. When he goes blind, do I keep working here? Will me going on missions freak him out and make him pissed he can’t?”
“You can’t stop living because you’ll be doing things he can’t.”
“But maybe I can live without doing those things.”
“Can you?”
“I think I can. But I don’t know about Prophet . . . I don’t think he can. And that scares the shit out of me.”
Judging by Doc’s expression, he felt exactly the same way.
Tom ran a hand through his hair and moved on to the reason he’d come to EE to start with today. “How well do you know Proph’s old team?”
“I was their Navy doc. I traveled with them.”
“They all have PTSD.”
“Every sailor, soldier, merc, Marine has it. Including you,” Doc informed him bluntly.
“And you?”
Doc cocked a brow. “I’m perfect.”
Tom bit back a smile, because out of all of them, he’d actually believe it of Doc. “Is their PTSD bad? Like, could it fuck them up?”
“You have met them, yes?”
“They seem pretty normal.”
Doc groaned loudly. “It’s so fucked up that you say that. Means you’re so fucked up.”
“Doc, this is serious. Did John have PTSD too?”
“Yes.” His tone was clipped, like he hated talking about the man. “Now tell me what the fuck these questions are all about.”
“Prophet’s flashbacks are getting worse.”
“How much worse?”
“Nightly. Sometimes more than one. And a lot of them involve John. He thinks he sees John. Talks to him. And then in the morning, I’ll find sand on the floor, and it’s always in the spot Prophet talks to when he’s seeing John.”
Doc contemplated all of that for a long moment. “You think Prophet is making John up? Scattering the sand?”
“Do you? Could he be sleepwalking and I’m just not catching it? Because we sleep in shifts, and I know I probably pass out harder than normal from the stress. Christ, I feel like he’s going crazy and I’m a short step behind him.”
Doc sighed. “PTSD is . . . I can’t rule it out. Prophet could be sleepwalking. Playing with the sand he’s got in that box, putting it where John was in his dream.”
“That makes me feel fifty percent better and just as bad.” Tom hesitated. “Could he be seeing things?”
“Because of the disease? Or the PTSD?”
“Both. Either.”
“The disease? No, it’s not like that. He wouldn’t hallucinate. He’ll just be unable to see one morning.”
Jesus. Tom sat heavily in the nearest chair. Maybe for the first time that realization hit him, and hit him hard. And he was only glad he wasn’t in front of Prophet when the tears of mourning came.
When he got home hours later, he was a little lighter. Not much, but Doc had taken him out to lunch, and they’d talked, and he’d gone to a movie by himself.
He was actually looking forward to getting back to the apartment, not dreading it. When he let himself in, he knew they were alone just because there was no music blasting. Remy was with the tutor Prophet had hired, so he wouldn’t miss anything while he stayed here. They couldn’t enroll him in school, but Prophet had sweet-talked his teachers into sending assignments. And Remy was passing tests.
It hadn’t even been a week, but already it was like Remy had always been here.
“Hey,” Prophet called. He was facing the door instead of away from it, and he had an empty plate next to him—Remy had been encouraging him to eat, taking care of Prophet in a way that Tom found incredibly innocent and mature all at once.
“Hey.” He came over and rubbed the back of Prophet’s neck. Prophet groaned and bent his head forward, and Tom indulged him.
The clippings were spread out on the table in front of him, a giant puzzle Prophet hadn’t quite figured out yet. Tom wondered how many nights over the past decade Prophet had sat alone and pored over his past, letting the memories twine around what should’ve been purely unemotional work.
He knew for sure that Prophet had been sitting in that spot at least since Tom had left the apartment. The knots in Prophet’s shoulders and neck confirmed it.
“Need any help?”
Prophet sighed. “Have at it. After you do that for several hours.”
Tom snorted, but he didn’t stop while he scanned the newspaper clippings. Prophet had them sorted in chronological order, and Tom thought about what Lansing had mentioned, how Prophet’s jobs always took him to places where terrorist attacks took place. That wasn’t a coincidence, but maybe the order was wrong.
“There are some spots where you’re in a location first and then a small terror attack happens, or a sighting,” Tom said now. “Did you ever think that maybe John followed you on your jobs. You said he knows you better than anyone—that he could track you. So, what if he did?”
“And he just happened to have a terror attack up his sleeve for each location?”
“Stranger things have happened. All he’d have to do was make contacts—it’s not like your jobs took you to the most law-abiding places.”
“So what, he’s been framing me for years? While running a terror network.” Prophet snorted, then pushed the chair back and stood, forcing Tom to back away before he was run over. Then Prophet didn’t move, stood there and stared at the papers, and then he moved away from the table like it was on fire. “Or maybe he was giving me an alibi. Or completely fucking with me.”
“Fuck.”
Prophet drew in a harsh breath. “Good word for all of it.”
“And how does Cillian fit into all of this? He lied to you about John’s body . . . that means
he knows a lot.”
“Which is what Mal’s trying to find out.”
“When’s the last time Cillian was home?”
Prophet thought back. “I think before I went to New Orleans. And he wouldn’t leave anything important there for that long. But I haven’t been able to get any kind of status report from Mal. He’s MIA with me—checking in with King, but giving the barest of reports.”
“And Cillian hasn’t texted you?”
“No. And yes, I’ve tried texting him. Nothing.”
“I say we go into his apartment and search the place anyway.”
Prophet crossed his arms and asked, “For what?” with a smirk.
“So I can trash it?” Tom said hopefully.
“Isn’t it enough that you threw the couch out the window?”
“You fucking love that shit,” Tom growled. “The jealousy turns you the hell on.” Prophet’s eyes got that familiar glow. “I was actually hoping we could revisit it. Soon.”
“Soon,” Tom agreed. For now, that was enough.
Remy came home soon after, and they had dinner together and watched a movie before Remy headed to do some homework and draw.
“He’s going to be a fucking terror,” Prophet said when they were alone in bed, watching more TV. He was trying to fall asleep, mainly so Tom could actually get some sleep.
“Of course he is. He’s on his best behavior, but soon this place is going to be overrun with teenage boys. And girls.”
Prophet groaned. “We’re going to have to kick Cillian out and make this place bigger.”
“And that suits me just fine.”
“Figured you wouldn’t protest.” Domestication was really yanking his chain, telling him that he could have a shot at a family, a normal life—at the same time it was taking away his ability to see any of it.
“Proph, your phone.” Tom handed it to him, and he glanced at the caller ID.
Speaking of domestic . . . “Hey, Mom.”
Tom’s head jerked his way as Judie Drews said, “Baby, how are you?”
Baby. Holy hell. “How’re those meds doing?”
“Elijah, you cut the shit, you hear me?”
He tried to wrap his head around how normal she sounded, like the Judie Drews before his father killed himself, before the scheming forced them out of New York and into Texas. It hadn’t always been shitty. Maybe it hadn’t been the best, but it was better than a lot of his friends’ families. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
There was a long pause, and she said, “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? You can.”
She was talking about his eyes. And it had been years since she’d asked about them. She was really fucking lucid—definitely taking her meds or finally on the right ones. “I know,” he lied.
“Good. Listen, I can’t stay on long—the girls are waiting for me. We’re taking belly dancing lessons.”
He groaned. “I could’ve lived my whole life not knowing that,” and she laughed.
“Love you, baby. Talk soon.”
He was actually smiling when he hung up. Handed the phone to Tom who sat staring at him. “What?”
Tom gave a small shrug and said, a little hesitantly, “It’s just . . . I don’t know anything about you or your family. For all I know, you were dropped from the sky.”
Prophet pointed. “Ding ding. Dropped in the middle of nowhere and raised by wolves.”
Tom rolled his eyes.
“My mom’s in a facility. She’s been there a long time—mainly because it’s the safest place for her.”
“Because of your jobs?”
“No.” Prophet shook his head. “She’s bipolar. And she wasn’t taking her meds regularly. Not at all when I was growing up, unless I was there to make sure she took them.”
He waited for Tom to say something about his caretaking abilities, but to his credit, Tom only asked, “Did you stay with John because your family was screwed up, or did you do it because of how screwed up John’s family was?”
Prophet huffed.
“You don’t like me knowing shit about you.”
“Give the man a prize. And to answer your question, it was a little from both columns. And you didn’t talk about your family.”
“No, but you got to live it when you busted into my past.”
“When I busted into your past,” Prophet repeated, doing his best not to laugh.
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.” Inside, he totally was though. “Fucking drama queen.”
Tom softened, rubbed Prophet’s cheek, and Prophet realized how much he missed the contact. Tom was giving him all the time he needed, the space . . . and sometimes Prophet just wished the guy would push him down and fuck him.
But most of the time, he knew he couldn’t. He kept flashing back to the blindfold. And everything else.
“Did John fuck you up with relationships?” Tom asked now.
“I don’t know, T. I never really thought about it.”
“But he was your first, last, and only one, right?”
“Yeah, he was.” Much in the way Remy’s dad was Tommy’s.
Prophet was up the next morning at oh dark hundred for a run in the woods and some general training. Remy was locked up tight in the apartment, and Prophet let his footfalls soothe him, the routine lulling him into the zone.
Or he would’ve let it, if Tommy hadn’t been muttering complaints behind him, about how it was too cold for humans to be outside for no good damned reason.
Tom had been the one to insist on going with him, and Prophet knew it was more of a let’s keep track of the crazy man thing than a burning desire to be in the woods instead of in bed. But Prophet didn’t give a shit about Tom’s regrets—he wasn’t letting him off the hook. The training was too important for either of them to slack off, no matter how exhausted or defeated they might feel. No, that was when you pushed harder, dammit.
And you sound like a drill sergeant. Or a fucking motivational speaker infomercial. “Could you bite back your complaints? You’re fucking with my run.”
“Your run is fucking with my ability to complain,” Tom called back.
Prophet stopped and turned to find Tom stretching out his side. “Cramp?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “No, I always stand like this.”
“You’re not a morning person.”
“We don’t even have mornings or nights anymore, Proph. It’s all one big blended period of no sleep.”
“Do you want to fight?” Prophet asked him, changing his stance. Tom frowned, and Prophet waited until Tom realized that he was talking about sparring and not picking a fight. Hell, it was still a way to get their aggression out under the guise of practice anyway.
“Fine. Gotta be better than running, right?”
“If you say so.” Before they started, Prophet showed him some tricks he’d learned during close-quarter battle training, because that was a whole different kind of fighting from what Tommy was probably used to. And then they separated and circled each other.
Prophet’s blood was racing—the run got him warm but watching Tom move was a whole different kind of heat. And as much as Prophet tried to ignore his urges, he couldn’t. So he simply hadn’t followed through on them, but he’d miscalculated the amount of sheer physical contact during a fight. He tried to just keep distance between them, but Tom wasn’t letting that happen. Just like he knew what Prophet was trying to do, the bastard. He was like a charging bull, determined to bring Prophet down in his own way. And ignoring every single thing Prophet was trying to teach him.
Every hit Prophet got in went straight to his own dick somehow. Every time Tom touched him was like a jolt of electricity. Prophet wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after Tom caught him on the lip. He tasted blood, and Tom told him not to worry, that it would fucking freeze the way they were.
But they were both sweating. Flushed. Furious and yet . . . not. And then To
m tackled him out of the blue, and Prophet fell with a grunt into the leaves, with Tom on top of him. Smiling.
Prophet shook his head. “You totally did that wrong.”
“Uh, who’s on top here?”
“You’re so fucking deluded, T. You really think this is winning? Do you know how easily I could throw you off and disable you? Kill you?”
“Yeah, I think this is winning,” Tom murmured, staring at Prophet’s lips—and Prophet realized they were both hard as hell. “And yes, I know how easily you could. I know how fucking fragile it all is. Message received long before I met you.”
Prophet shoved Tom off him before this went any further. Because he was picturing Tom naked in the leaves, and it was a good picture because he was naked too and fucking Tom in those leaves. “I’ll just take care of all of the shit coming our way myself.”
“Good. Because I need sleep. Wake me when you’ve got John, okay?”
“Ha. Ha.”
But then Tom got serious, pointed in Prophet’s face—which Prophet of course growled at, and Tom fucking ignored him, saying, “I realize you’re planning on fighting all the dragons single-handedly—”
“I’m going to protect you from John, dammit. Show him that he can’t fucking mess with you. This is about territory.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to piss a circle around me too?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Tom rolled his eyes but wisely said nothing else. Because Prophet was going to show him how to defend himself in every single situation possible, dammit, and Tommy was going to learn them and those things would save his life, the way Prophet might not be able to in the future.
It did not matter that Tommy was perfectly capable of saving his own goddamned self, more than anyone else he knew. He was going to show him stuff until he couldn’t show him things anymore and then . . .
It was the and then that always hit him the hardest. Shouldn’t, but did. Fuck, and when it didn’t, you couldn’t even wish for that because then it would be the and then . . .
