News flash: Ames Axford is not a good patient.
“The fuck are you smiling about?” Ames demands, glaring at me.
“Oh, I dunno. The warm day? The birds singing?” I give him a look. “The fact that my best friend gets to be alive to enjoy those things?”
Ames grunts. “Well, stop it because you lookderanged.” He’s silent for two steps. “Like a golden retriever with a brand-new bone.”
I bark out a laugh. He’s not wrong.
“Woof,” I deadpan, and Ames starts to laugh too… before remembering why laughing’s not advisable at the moment.
“Fucking stupid. Who even needs a collarbone and ribs?” he mutters, leaning against me more heavily.
Correction: Ames Axford is the worst patient alive. I don’t know why I find it so freaking adorable.
“Easy,” I say as we approach the steps. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” he says softly. I look down at him, and our eyes meet and hold for a beat too long.
I clear my throat. “Come on. Five or six more steps?—”
Those few steps are nerve-racking for me and incredibly difficult for Ames. He tries not to show it, but I’m way too attuned to his every wince, flinch, and sharp hiss of breath to be fooled.
When we get in the door, we both head for the couch—the nearest comfortable surface—by unspoken agreement. I get Ames propped up with pillows behind his back and his feet on a footstool. I adjust his sling, fetch him a waterbottle, and drape a blanket over his legs, even though he insists he’s not cold.
“What else do you need?” I ask. “You can have more pain meds in…” I consult my watch. “An hour and forty-six minutes. I can make you something to eat first. Or you could nap, then eat?—”
“Nap? Fuck, am I someone’s elderly grandmother now?”
“Obviously not. Grandma Axford could’ve run circles around you, even with her walker. I’m just trying to?—”
“I know what you’re doing.” Ames looks up at me, and his face softens. He pats the cushion with his good hand. “Come here.”
I settle a few inches away, careful not to jostle anything.
“Closer.”
I scoot toward him an inch.
He huffs. “Okay, listen. You’re vibrating like a fucking guitar string, and that’sreallybad for my collarbone, I fear. I feel it unknitting itself.” He manages to say all this with a straight face.
“That’s not how bones work,” I mutter, but I move another inch closer. It’s weirdly reminiscent of how we were the other night at his apartment, and that makes my heart speed up.
When my sleeve is in touching distance, Ames grabs the fabric and tugs. “Come on. Put your head down a minute.”
“Down… on your lap? Really?”
“Yes. Because I need a hug, but I can’t lift my motherfucking arm, so we’re improvising. Get it?”
I shift down on the couch, which leaves my feet dangling over the arm. I rest my head on his lap, facinghim, and put my arms around his waist. This close, I can see his chest rise and fall, reassuringly steady and even. I can smell the harsh hospital soap and the scent of Ames beneath it.
His fingers immediately tangle in my hair, carding it with slow, careful strokes. There’s nothing sexy about this. In fact, it’s soothing in a way I didn’t know I needed… but apparently, Ames did.
“I’m really okay, Rob,” he says softly.
I take a deep breath and feel myself relax a little at a time, which is how I realize just how wound up I’ve been.
Less than five minutes later, Ames’s eyes drift shut, his fingers stop moving, and his hand lies heavily on my head.
