Открыть фик целиком в отдельном окне
“Thanks, Anton.” Peter stood to leave.
“No stay there. I’ll call Connor.”
“I can do it on my own, Anton.”
“I think you’ve been doing it on your own for far too long and that is half the problem.”
“All right, I’m too tired to argue with you.”
“And for that I am pleased.”
***
Connor nodded gravely as he spoke to Anton and received a list of instruction on the care and feeding of an emotionally drained physicist; all the while Peter sat passively in the chair and dozed.
“Peter?” Connor’s hand was warm on his shoulder and for a moment Peter resisted the urge to wake up and lose the comforting touch.
“Sorry, must have dozed off.”
“It’s okay, you ready to go?” Instinctively, Connor knew to keep the steady pressure on his friend’s shoulder.
Numbly, Peter could do no more than nod. His head ached; and, somewhere within the tiny core of his soul, he ached and wondered absently if it could be measured. If it were a real force that has form and volume; and if it could be measured, just where on the ache scale it would be. Eyes cast to the floor, he allowed himself to be guided up and propelled along the steel gray corridors and out into the night air. A cold frost rimed his face in seconds. He stopped, turning his eyes upwards and then away from the cold light the stars offered him, before he got into the car with Connor. It was a presence; an essence that kept him grounded. Without it, he knew that he could easily slip away.
Too long he’d hidden pieces of himself, cut parts away that simply hurt too much and decided to take them out at a later, more appropriate date. Which, of course, had never come; and now there were simply too many to deal with to allow any of them to touch him.
If he spoke to Anton, he would be told he was coping. Connor would be vaguely horrified and suggest he was withdrawing; and, in truth, he was. There was nothing more than the depth of despair that filled his waking days. The longing to be anywhere else, doing anything else without having to be reminded constantly of his own inabilities of saving and holding onto something that was truly precious. Axon shuffled over in the seat. He curled against the car door, his jacket pushed between his head and the glass as he closed his eyes against the scent of the man who kept him hovering in the real world.
Connor stole the occasional glance at his companion and worried. The ashen features marked by the starkly calm state concerned him more than he could remember. Maybe it was the feeling of total helplessness that invaded his soul and the desire. Oh, Gods, the desire to reach out and calm, to comfort, was too strong and he was drowning in the waves as they washed over him. Guilty pleasures, hidden secrets crept to the surface of his mind; and, for the first time in what seemed like an age, Connor felt. This enigmatic man who could be constantly restless, whose very existence bordered on chaotic movement, had stilled; and with it so too did the breath in Connor’s lungs.
The car pulled up before a comfortable little house on the outskirts of the city. A well maintained garden surrounded the cheerful timber cottage and Connor switched off the engine, pulling bags and jackets out of the car before he gently opened the door on Peter’s side. His somnambulant friend almost fell out, bar for the seat belt, and into Connor’s arms. Gray stormy eyes blinked and confusion fell across the tired features.
“Sorry, went to sleep,” Peter muttered and peered around.
“I think that’s what Anton had in mind,” Connor answered gently as he traced the tired face and stood back.
“Yeah, but I haven’t taken the pills yet.” Peter smiled sheepishly.
“Maybe it’s just the company.” Doyle laughed self-depreciatingly as he helped extricate Peter from the car.
“No, it’s not the company. ‘M sorry, Connor.” Peter fought the urge to simply give in and, with what seemed like a mammoth effort, pushed himself up and leaned against the car. “Not my place.” Peter frowned.
“No, I wasn’t sure what you had at home and Anton wants you to eat and sleep. Since you’re doing neither, the change in venue might help.”
“Having company might help,” Peter admitted as he ambled in behind his friend.
“Now that’s the sanest thing I’ve heard you say in almost two weeks.” Connor smiled. “You know where your room is; I’ll start supper, okay?”
“Yeah.” Peter squared his shoulders and peered upstairs, flicking the light on as he went past, and a smile suddenly bent his lips. “Hey, does this mean I get to have a bath?”
Laughter sounded from downstairs. “My housekeeper would prefer it,” Connor yelled as he put the casserole in the oven and switched it to warm. Coffee was next ready for the morning and he banked the fire before putting out food for the cat that suddenly appeared at his ankles, purring madly.
Connor bent down and scratched behind an ear as the fluffy, gray blob devoured its meal.
“I only hope our houseguest is as hungry otherwise,” Connor chatted to the cat, which totally failed to take any notice whatsoever. “Anton will skin me alive.” With one last pat, he headed upstairs.
From the hallway, he heard the water running into the bathtub and caught the scent of lavender and sandalwood in the bathroom. Peter had found the bath salts his mother had sent him and he’d hidden, which meant Peter had been through the linen press and probably found his favorite battered, old, brown robe that was usually stashed at the back. For a second, he worried that other things he kept hidden in the linen press would be unearthed and shuddered at the thought before heading into the spare room and lighting the fire.
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