Page 164 of Oddly Fine

With that parting comment, Beckett headed back to his room. Hayes was half asleep as Beckett crawled into bed and snuggled up to him. He pressed a kiss to Hayes’ shoulder, the skin sweet and soft beneath his lips.

“Had a good talk?” Hayes asked. Maybe they’d been loud enough for him to hear their conversation, or maybe he’d simply deduced what had been going on in the living room.

“At least I didn’t punch him,” Beckett said. He nestled his head closer to Hayes’ chest, and felt the comforting rumble of his chuckles.

He was asleep a minute later.

Chapter 31

“I could just—call her,” Franklin said. He sounded small and frightened, much like a little boy, which was rather shocking to hear.

But Beckett didn’t blame him. He had his own problems to deal with when they got to their parents’ house. He was scared out of his own fucking mind. Far more so than he’d ever been, even when he was in the Corps preparing for a firefight in the desert.

“No,” Beckett said. “You fucked it up, you unfuck it in person. Besides—she’ll want to meet dipshit.” He gestured towards his newly official brother-in-law. Matthew was looking particularly dapper today—like he’d brought out the big guns to impress. His expensive tastes were subtle. Quiet elegance, Hayes would call it. He should know—he had that quality himself.

“We just—hardest part is getting out of the car,” Beckett assured his older brother, hoping Franklin wouldn’t be able to see through the bullshit.

“I think it’ll be the ass-whooping, personally, but you lie to yourself if you need to,” Franklin said, killing Beckett’s confidence in his attempts at subterfuge.

Beckett took one more deep breath and prepared himself to step out of the car, just as his door was pulled open, revealing the incredible specimen that was Hayes Monroe. He looked a little less than pleased as he peered down at Beckett expectantly.

“I’ve let you stew for 10 minutes—might be time to get your ass in gear before she looks outside and comes to meet you,” Hayes pointed out. They’d driven separate cars. Beckett had driven Franklin and Matthew, too afraid they’d wimp out and instruct their personal driver to turn around and head back to Montreal. Hayes had driven there on his own using their rental car.

“Agent Monroe has a point, darling. As angry as she’ll be, it’s perhaps better to meet her on home ground, I think,” Matthew said, kindly.

Beckett begrudgingly admitted that he didn’t hate the man quite as much as he had initially. Every time he witnessed Matthew interacting with Franklin, he despised him a little less. He was still an asshole—but he’d done right by Franklin. A brother really couldn’t ask for more than that.

“You’re right,” Franklin conceded, and refusing to procrastinate a moment longer, he pushed the door open and stepped out of the car. Matthew followed him.

Beckett stepped out last, but he was the first to enter their childhood home. Alone, like a scout sent ahead to check out what might lie ahead of the troops.

“Maman?” he called out, as soon as his feet hit the familiar entryway tiles.

He heard the telltale sound of her puttering about, along with an excited dog announcing his homecoming, and then she appeared in the doorway of the kitchen looking—haggard.

It was a Tuesday morning—she hadn’t expected company—but Beckett didn’t remember the last time he’d seen his mother so sullen and downtrodden. She was still in her pajamas, and the top and bottom were mismatched. That was the first anomaly. Her naturally curly hair was haphazardly gathered into a frizzy bun. The bags under her eyes showed her lack of sleep, and the red, irritated skin under her nose told Beckett she’d been crying quite a bit.

“Beckett?” she said, in mild disbelief. “Hi, sweetheart! Une belle surprise! What are you—” she began, rushing up to him for a hug. She squeezed him tightly—like she might be trying to fuse them together. “Let me look at you,” she said, as she pulled back, lifting her hands to gently frame his beaten up face. Her eyes betrayed the depth of her concern as she took in the myriad cuts and bruises.

“What happened to you—oh, my baby,” she cooed sympathetically.

“I’m fine,” he promised, placing his hands on top of hers.

“You’re a fine liar. You always have been,” she chastised, before letting him go with a sigh and turned when she heard Hayes come through the door.

Beckett sneaked a look out the window to make sure Franklin was still waiting outside. They’d agreed Beckett would warn her first, which should lessen the shock of his return.

“Oh, Hayes, dear—what madness did he get himself into now? And tell me you’ve been keeping well away from it!” she exclaimed, rushing to hug him as well. She took her time inspecting every inch of his handsome face to make sure he was unharmed.

She turned back to study Beckett, her gaze raking over him disapprovingly, taking note of his overall appearance of having been run over by a bus. Or a herd of bison. Either way, he looked rough.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Beckett declared with a whine, that motherly disapproval having the effect of making him feel like a pre-schooler trying to avoid punishment.

“Don’t you play daft with me!” she warned him, waving a stern finger in his face.

“Except this time—he’s telling the truth, Mom. Beck’s messed up face is on me.”

So—Franklin had apparently taken a page out of Beckett’s book and gone with “fuck the plan.” He stood in the doorway, with one foot on the welcome mat—and one foot on the porch.