Page 162 of Oddly Fine

“Hold on. 20 hours?” He squawked and sat up, throwing the covers off him.

Hayes reached for him, grabbing Beckett’s hand and gently coaxing him to settle back in the bed.

“Where are you going? It’s the middle of the night. You need to sleep.” Hayes admonished affectionately.

“The fuck do you mean, sleep! I’ve been completely out of it for the past 20 hours!” he said, feeling like a toddler arguing about nap time. Hayes must have had a similar comparison in mind because his smile was mischievous. Far more so than Beckett was used to seeing.

“I doubt wherever you were was restful,” Hayes pointed out kindly. “You didn’t sleep. You were wide awake the whole time, just—absent,” he explained. He was never patronizing. He never treated Beckett like something to be careful with. Where others saw a ticking time bomb, or a piece of china easily broken, Hayes only ever saw him as a human being. To be taken at face value. To be treated with fairness.

Beckett was bone tired, but the immature part of him refused to sleep just now. Instead, he shook his head and got to his feet. It was a slow, painful affair, but he managed it without yelping or howling from the pain.

“Beckett. Seriously, come back to bed,” Hayes declared tiredly, as if he was ready to just give up.

“I’m thirsty. I’m going for a glass of water. Is that allowed?” he asked, aware that he was being contentious. Hayes shook his head like he found him impossible to deal with and returned to his book. It wasn’t one of Hayes’ books, Beckett noticed suddenly. It was one of the paperbacks Beckett kept in his go bag.

“Suit yourself,” Hayes said with a shrug. Beckett padded towards the door, catching the end of Hayes’ “Holler if you pass out!” before he shut the door behind him.

It was still too damned early to be up and about. The clock in the kitchen read 4:00 a.m. and the moon was still up.

“Are you sleepwalking? Or are you truly back?”

Beckett nearly jumped out of his skin when Franklin spoke to him. He was sitting in the shadows of the living room, like some evil mastermind. Dr. No came to mind.

“Fucking hell,” Beckett muttered, pressing a hand to his chest from the shock of seeing his brother again.

“Good to have you back,” Franklin said with a fond chuckle. He looked—better. Not quite as haggard as the last time he’d seen him. He’d trimmed his beard and cut his hair. He still had deep purple smudges under his eyes from lack of sleep, but it wasn’t anything a few days of rest couldn’t fix.

“What are you doing up?” Beckett asked. None of the Thérault kids had been particularly early risers. His mother was, but her kids—not so much. Seeing one of the siblings up before 8:00 a.m. on their days off was extremely rare.

“Could ask you the same thing,” he said, avoiding the question as usual. Beckett grabbed a glass from the kitchen cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. He turned, leaning against the counter, eyeing his brother suspiciously before downing the entire thing in one go. He refilled it before moving towards the living room and carefully sitting down in a large armchair across from Franklin.

“Postponing catching up on sleep, I think,” Beckett said, because he wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t snuggled up against his boyfriend and gone back to sleep. Hell, he knew he was tired enough.

“Ah—revenge for dissociating?” Franklin guessed, cocking his head and wearing that know-it-all smile.

Usually, when Franklin went into psychoanalysis mode, Beckett wanted nothing more than to shove a dirty sock down his throat to shut him up. Now, though—his fatigue was so deep—his system so thoroughly wiped out, he found he had no energy to be angry.

“I guess?” Beckett replied, because it was a distinct possibility.

“Hayes was quite—” he hesitated.

“Worried?” Beckett supplied, unsure why Franklin was struggling for words. To his surprise, his brother shook his head.

“Competent,” he said instead. “He sort of just—dragged you around, not in the least bothered that you couldn’t tell us your name, or where you’d been born. Just—helped you get comfortable, made sure you were breathing, and looked perfectly content to wait until you snapped out of it.” Franklin sounded genuinely impressed.

“Suppose he’s used to seeing me lose my shit,” Beckett commented with a shrug.

Franklin shook his head again.

“More like—he loves you enough to wait it out.”

Beckett hummed and took a long drink of water. He wasn’t exactly surprised. The last year had been—rocky. What with being hunted, shot at, and betrayed repeatedly, somehow their partnership was stronger than ever. It was unlike anything Beckett had ever experienced. He was damned lucky, and he knew it.

“How was the happy reunion?” Beckett asked, needing to change the subject.

Franklin’s smile was both bashful and fatuous. It was nauseating. Even after so much time watching Matthew run himself ragged trying to save Franklin’s life, he still couldn’t quite get it through his head that they were truly together.

“Overdue,” Franklin summarised. “It’s not quite over, of course. Mario appeared in front of the judge this afternoon. He’s pleading not guilty, of course, but the judge refused to let him out on bail, so—there’s that. Matthew has to meet with his siblings in the morning—make sure none of them suspect what he’s up to or—keen to follow in their uncle’s footsteps.”