After a while, he set his fork down and gazed at Elliot. "How are you doing?"
"I'm fine."
He nodded slowly, like he was considering that. "Yeah?"
"Yes."
"How did The General handle it?” Hale asked, studying his face.
Elliot stilled.
"The funeral and all," he added. "Did he—was he there for you at all, or?—"
"He was very efficient about all of it." Elliot heard how bad that sounded.
He sipped his water, buying himself some time. "He sent me an email last night.” He hadn't planned on saying any of this. "About herpersonal effects. Her summer house in Lyon. Very organized. Very?—"
Turning on his stool, Hale faced him.
Elliot turned too, despite himself, and when Hale's hand landed on his knee, Elliot’s eyes dropped to where it rested.
"You didn't have anyone there," Hale said. Not a question.
Elliot's throat tightened. He didn’t lift his gaze.
"I'm so sorry, Elliot.”
The use of his first name made Elliot's vision blur, but he blinked it back the way he always did.
He needed to feel something other than this—the grief sitting heavy in his sternum, the echo of two hundred handshakes, his father’s voice mapping out his future over his mother’s grave. He needed it gone, even just for a few hours.
He leaned in and kissed Hale softly. When he pulled back, Hale was looking at him, expression open.
“Is this okay?” Elliot asked. “I don’t even know if you’re—if there’s someone?—”
“There’s no one,” Hale said. “And yes. It’s okay.”
He kissed Elliot back, slow and deliberate, one hand coming up to rest on the side of his face. Elliot leaned into his touch, his palm warm and solid against his cheek.
They made it to the bedroom without rushing.
Hale undressed him slowly, his movements careful and tender, and Elliot let him. He rarely let anyone else set the pace, relinquishing control, but tonight he didn’t have anything left in him.
Hale was gentle in a way that could have felt condescending but didn’t.
At some point, Elliot stopped thinking entirely. There was just him and Hale and the quiet of the room. He pressed his face into Hale’s shoulder and held on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HUDSON
Four years after Selection
Hudson woke first.
Shaw was on his side, back to him, taking up approximately thirty percent of the mattress. Everything about him was so disciplined and tidy, even unconscious. Hudson had a full king and Shaw had claimed his corner of it like he was trying not to impose.
His gaze traveled down Shaw’s back. The line of his ribs. The tattoos. The 0.5 between his shoulder blades, small and precise.
