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"Let me?" Marcus eyed him from his one non-swollen eye, then closed it. "You my keeper now?"
"Sometimes I get the feeling you need one. Weird, huh?" Thomas shifted so he was sitting sideways on his hip. Propping his head on his fist, he reached out and pushed Marcus' hair back from his temple, rubbing his thumb against the unmarked slope of his left cheekbone.
"I'll say. " But the fact Marcus submitted without further comment to the stroking told Thomas how bad Marcus was probably feeling. He snagged a pillow from a gurney and put it between Marcus' head and the wall to give him something to support his head and neck.
"It's not your fault, pet," Marcus murmured. "None of it. "
"I should have been there sooner," Thomas repeated.
"It's just a face. Just flesh and bone. When you die, it all rots away. " A corner of Marcus' mouth twitched. "Should I be worried? You're going to dump me if I stop being pretty?"
"You're pretty?" Thomas was glad Marcus' eyes were closed so he wouldn't see the war between anger and concern in his expression. "I mean, you're old, almost forty.
Your pecs are starting to sag like my grandmother's breasts. . . "
When Marcus swung a hand out to deliver a weak-knuckled slap to his abdomen, Thomas caught it. Instead of thrusting it back, he held on, a light grip of Marcus' wrist, his fingers tracing Marcus' palm. Marcus stayed still for a moment or two, then his fingers moved, a caress to Thomas' sternum with his knuckles before he pulled away to switch hands on the ice pack they'd provided for his face.
"What happened to that whole thing at the farm, your argument about not solving anything by being confrontational?"
"This was a little different. They hurt you. "
Marcus made a noncommittal noise, laid his other hand on his knee, carefully stretching out one leg. "I think we're going to be here for a while. "
"Let me check on things. "
"Let you. That's more like it. Need to remember your place. "
"Shut up and wait here. " Thomas approached the front desk, the nurse who narrowed her gaze at him as he came. He knew he had blood on the front of his shirt.
Probably splattered on his face.
Maybe he should visit the restroom. But he didn't want Marcus out of his sight.
"I told you the doctor - "
"I know," Thomas said. He glanced back, saw Marcus had his eyes still closed, jaw held taut, breathing shallow. "Can he have something for the pain until then? He doesn't have any allergies. "
"I can't administer drugs without the doctor's permission. "
"Do they. . . do they do good stitching here? He - " Thomas abruptly pulled out his wallet, fished out something he knew he shouldn't be showing, and slid it across the counter to her. "I know he's surly and unlivable at the moment, and even on a good day he can be like that, but that's what he normally looks like, inside and out. " The wallet picture was one of many that had been done at one of Julie's post production parties by a professional photographer. Despite her budget trepidations, she'd known the promo brochure was important. Marcus had been listening to someone, his head turned at a slight profile, dipped a bit. The photographer had reproduced it in black and white and come up with a finished product that was reminiscent of a still of a legendary great, such as Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Rock Hudson.
Julie had given this one to Thomas. He kept it behind a couple of other things in his wallet that didn't get disturbed much. An old video club card, his county library card.
Even so, the corners of the photo had gotten dog-eared from the nights he'd taken it out to look at it in the quiet darkness of his room at home. He laid it on the nurse's clipboard.
"It's not who he is," he said in a low voice. "Not what's special about him, but it's still important. It's. . . his armor. His way of coping. " As the words came out of his mouth, compelled by some instinct, Thomas knew it was true. It protected whatever it was Marcus so steadfastly refused to tell him, to tell anyone.
The nurse gave him a quiet look, reached out and patted his hand. "Dr. Tillman does very fine stitch work. My boy split open his forehead on a rock last year and you can barely see the scar anymore. You go sit down with your friend and we'll get to you as soon as possible, I promise. "
Thomas nodded, tucked the picture away and returned to Marcus, whose eyes were still closed.
"Did you offer her sex to get me in faster?"
"Should I have?"
At the squeak of wheels and a lingering shadow, Thomas glanced up, surprised to see an orderly pushing a hamper full of dirty linens stop to peer at Marcus. Leaning over further, he took a step forward, his light brown eyes studying the gash, or so Thomas thought.
"Dodger? Is that you?"
