After a few days of this, Gerald said that Gideon’s mother—the one who’d died—had given him his love of music.
Joey had glanced up, his attention caught for the first time in days, and said that he hadn’t known that.
Trish said that she used to love it when he played his music so loud it rattled the house.It meant he was a real live teenager, and not some superadult cyborg living in her husband’s house.
That had made Joey laugh for some reason, and then he’d started to cry, and he’d stopped making noise altogether so they wouldn’t see him.He resumed his position, hiding his face in the starched white sheets next to Gideon, while Bob Dylan sang “Tangled Up in Blue” through Joey’s phone.
He was working so hard on controlling his breathing, he almost didn’t feel Gideon’s hand, awkwardly stroking his hair.
Then he heard Trish gasp, and he glanced up, not caring if Gideon’s parents saw his swollen face, his red eyes.
“Gid?”he asked, afraid—so afraid—it wasn’t what he thought.
“S’okay, kid,” Gideon rasped.“I’m okay.”
And then he sobbed while Gideon’s stepmother leaned over his back and held him, and Gideon’s father went to get the doctor.
His first thought—first real thought—after medical personnel gathered around the bed to do whatever they did to people coming out of comas—was that he needed to let the pack know.
The team.He needed to let theteamknow.
But he remembered that decision they’d made, that lawless, lawful decision, to protect themselves while they went out and tried to do good in the world, and he knew exactly what he’d meant.
“Harding?”he said into his phone.“You there?”
Harding—who had sent the rest of the team home but had remained in Massachusetts to deal with fallout and to make sure Joey wasn’t alone—had answered on the first ring.
“Any change?”
They’d all said this a thousand times in the last week.
“Clint, he’s awake,” Joey said, and he gave it up and let his throat close.“I think he’s gonna be okay.”
Mates and Littermates
“YOU UPfor this?”Joey asked for the fifty-dozenth time.
“You?”Gideon asked gently.
Joey looked away.“I’m just so glad you’re home,” he said.
Gideon’s extended recovery had been too long for the hospital, and too intense for a place with four flights of stairs.After a month, Gideon had gone to his father’s place in New Jersey for six weeks, until he could walk up the stairs without a pounding headache and going to the john didn’t send him to bed with spots in front of his eyes.
Joey had visited every weekend, exhausted and sad.His first night at Gerald and Trish’s New Jersey suburban palace had been painful—Joey had forgotten how to sleep.He woke up every five minutes, calling Gideon’s name, his movement hurting Gideon’s battered body.
Gideon had finally woken up after five solid hours to find Joey curled on the floor with a pillow and a blanket from the hallway, and he’d had it.
“Kid, get up here,” he’d ordered.
Joey had crawled up on the bed, miserable, in his briefs, looking like a bear on his last fucking berry.
“Okay,” Gideon said.“I need you to touch the places I’m talking about, okay?Gently, but touch them.Start with my ribs.”Joey’s hands, callused and firm, visited Gideon’s ribs, and Gideon covered them with his good hand.“They were broken, and, yes, they punctured my lungs.They’re not crunchy anymore, but they’re sore.My lungs need to heal.Can you feel that?”He breathed evenly, up and down.
Joey nodded.
“How’d that feel?”
“Rough,” Joey whispered.
