“And this one?” Nimble read the long word slowly. “Cyclobenzaprine?”
“Muscle relaxant,” Morgan said as he sank forward until his forehead rested against Nimble’s belly. “As needed.”
“Okay, so.” Nimble blew out a breath and placed the bottles back on the table, little orange soldiers who had done their job and then some. “You took too many, but notsomany. I think you can sleep it off. But first, water.”
Morgan’s head moved as though he was nodding. Nimble had to let go. Had to take his hand from Morgan’s hot face and unhook Morgan’s fingers from his belt so he could grab the glass on the table and fill it with water at the sink.
It felt like he was ripping off his own skin, but he knew it was the right thing to do. When he returned to Morgan’s side, water slopping down the edges of the glass, he knelt once more so he could look up at Morgan, mentally begging him to open his eyes.
“Morgan?” he asked softly.
Morgan did open his now-cloudy eyes, blinking as he attempted to focus.
“Drink this.” Nimble held up the glass with one hand, using the other to guide Morgan’s fingers to it. He waited until Morgan had a grip on the glass, and then cupped his hand around Morgan’s, steadying it as he raised the rim to Morgan’s lips. “Drink slowly.”
Nimble was no expert on overdoses, though he’d seen enough cop and hospital shows to have an idea that theyinvolved a great deal of writhing and throwing up and gagging while stomachs were pumped, all against a backdrop of shocked faces.
This was nothing like that. Morgan drank slowly, as directed, lashes dark on his pale cheeks, breathing in and out between swallows, jaw tight and loose and then tight again. When he finished with a gasp, he lowered the glass to his robe-draped thigh and opened his eyes to look at Nimble.
“This happened once before,” Morgan said, voice thick like he was dredging up the mud of memories. “Bradley was so pissed.”
“Well, he’s not here now,” Nimble said, disdain covering the fact that he had no idea who Bradley was. Only that the man was a jerk to be pissed about something like this. “I’m here now,” he announced stoutly to cover the fact that his heart was only beginning to slow from its fast, anxious beat.
“You are,” Morgan said. With his free hand, he reached to cup the back of Nimble’s head, a steady, slow touch that reassured Nimble further. “That you are.”
“What did you do last time?” Nimble asked, his worry overlaid with warmth that pinned itself inside him.
“Slept.” Morgan took a hard breath that raised his chest, and then he let that breath out slowly, his body relaxing. “It off.”
Nimble grabbed the glass before Morgan could drop it and reached past him to place it on the table. “Then you sleep now.” Nimble stood up and grabbed Morgan’s hands to pull him to his feet.
Morgan came willingly but slowly, his gaze focused on Nimble like Nimble had suddenly appeared, angel-like, out of a dark storm.
“You want the couch?” Nimble asked, thinking the parlor might be closer than the bedroom. “Or your bed?”
“Groceries?” Morgan swayed a little, leaning toward Nimble like he needed to fall over but didn’t want to impose upon Nimble to catch him.
Morgan needed to lie down, and fast, and Nimble needed to make that happen.
“I’ll get those,” Nimble said, like he and Morgan were good friends and he was just doing Morgan a favor. “I’ll put away the groceries, take a shower, borrow your clothes, and make dinner. All of it. But you need to lie down first.”
“Yes, boss,” Morgan said, his eyes closing, those long lashes fluttering high on his cheeks, a little color coming back to his face. “Yes, boss.”
“Okay, this way.” Nimble looped his arm around Morgan’s waist, which, beneath the robe and floppy clothes, was taut, as though before his accident Morgan used to work out.
Morgan’s arm came around his shoulder, and as Nimble began escorting him out of the kitchen and across the chilly landing, he huffed and said, “You smell like train.”
“Sure do,” Nimble replied cheerfully.
He fumbled for the switch along the wall inside the parlor and then gave up. Sometimes old buildings had light switches in different places, but he didn’t want to mess around looking while Morgan was swaying on his feet, on the verge of falling over.
He eased Morgan into the parlor, the bright light from the kitchen enough to let him find the couch. There was a wooden coffee table that he shoved aside with his knee as he slowly and carefully led Morgan to sit down.
Morgan swayed a bit when Nimble knelt once more to slip off Morgan’s sneakers. Nimble figured everything else was comfortable enough for Morgan to sleep in.
“I had a Nana,” Nimble said, urging Morgan to relax until his head was on a cushion. “She liked to put her feet up.” Nimblelifted Morgan’s legs onto the couch. “Then she’d give me five dollars to bring her a can of striped paint.”
“There’s no such thing as striped paint,” Morgan mumbled.
