“Nah, I’ll change at home. Sometimes I change at work, but not today. Same time tomorrow?”
I grunt.
“And that’s a ‘yeah, sure’ grunt. I’ll bring better coffee.”
He quickly packs up his medical supplies then heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, glancing back at me. Something in his expression shifts, more serious.
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re okay,” he says. “When you came through the doors, I thought…” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Yeah. I wasn’t a fan of that. Don’t do that again, G.”
I study him. “You looked pretty calm.”
“I was trained to be calm under those conditions,” he says with half a smile. “It doesn’t mean I wasn’t losing it a little the whole time.”
Then he’s gone, door clicking shut behind him.
His empty coffee cup is still on the toolbox table where he left it. He never finishes them when he’s here, just leaves them, and I always find them later when I’m cleaning up. I pick it up and stand there holding it for a second, then put it back down exactly where it was.
The afternoon light has moved while we were sitting here, coming in lower through the window now.
I pick up the remote and click rewind to the shirtless scene. I look at Sam Winchester’s shoulders and his build, probably closer and longer than I mean to.
I drag both hands over my face and go find something useful to do.
6
Lance
“You’re going to miss this when it’s over,” I say, smoothing the last strip of tape down over George’s bandage. Close to two weeks since the accident and we’ve settled into a routine, working the dressing changes around my hospital shifts. I know the stubborn bastard still slips into the shop every day, so the least I can do is make sure the wound stays clean.
George tips his head back and stares at the ceiling like he’s asking for divine intervention. “Yeah. Gonna miss spreading my thighs for you every damn day.”
Heat creeps up my neck at his choice of words and I ignore it like the responsible adult I am.
“I’m great company and you know it.” I peel off my gloves and drop them in the waste bag. “Wound looks good, by the way. You could probably handle it yourself at this point.”
“Good. Getting worn out by your face.”
“Yeah, I hear that a lot. I’m such a delight.” I start packing my supplies, slower than necessary. It’s not the twelve-hour shift catching up to me, even though I should have gone straight home and come back after some sleep. It’s the fact that once I zip this bag, I don’t have a reason to stay.
George solves the problem by picking up a pizza box from the kitchen counter and opening it in my direction. “Ordered while you were parking. Sit down.”
I sit without arguing. It’s been six hours since I ate a stale granola bar from my locker, and George has a way of knowing these things about me without being told. He puts Supernatural on, hands me a slice, and drops back into his spot on the couch. It’s been decided for me that I’m staying, and I find I have absolutely no objections.
We’re halfway into an episode and most of the pizza is gone when I notice George isn’t actually watching the screen. His attention keeps slipping—quick, illegal little glances in my direction that he clearly thinks are stealthy.
They’re not.
I work in a place where spotting subtle changes in people is basically a survival skill, and I’ve had ten years of practice on this particular man.
“Alright, what?” I ask.
“What?”
“You keep looking at me. Do I have sauce on my face?”
“No.”
“Then why do you keep staring?”
