He awoke with a start, coughing and choking, forcing water from his mouth and lungs. Pulling himself into a sitting position, he forced the rest of the bath water from his body, not even noticing that he was trembling. Inhaling deeply, Pacey rubbed his hands vigorously over his face, trying to wash away the day, his dream and the horrible feeling that seemed to have invaded him.
"Fuck." He whispered the word, his throat hoarse. Something brushed his skin and he reached for the beer bottle he’d dropped in the water. Setting it beside the five other empty ones on the toilet seat lid, he leaned forward and fished around for the bathtub plug.
He’d slept. At least he assumed that the images that had flickered through his mind had been bad dreams and not his imagination running away with him. Andie’s blood had lapped at his body, touching him like fingers, begging him to hold her, catch her. He’d heard her voice, heard her cry out. Heard everything he hadn’t heard that morning.
It had been less than twelve hours.
He sat in the bath until the beer stained water had all drained away, looking down at his hands. The fingers were puckered and wrinkled from exposure to the water, his skin seemed unnaturally white. As the last drops gurgled away, Pacey forced himself to his feet, stepping carefully out of the tub.
He seemed wrong in the mirror as he stared at himself, not recognizing anything behind the blue of his eyes. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around his waist and knotted it before turning to the door. The rest of the world was waiting out there, and not even the prospect of Jack’s bed seemed worth opening it for.
Turning around, he leaned against the door instead, afraid to close his eyes. Instead, he stared at the shower rod, the simple black and white patterned curtain that hung from it. It would all be so easy. Everything could be swift and simple and over in a matter of mere moments. He could hang himself. He dropped his eyes to the empty beer bottles. He could smash one of those and slit his throat, his wrists. He could let his life drip out of him like some sort of torture, just the constant sound of red drops hitting the burnished white of the tile.
All so easy.
Shaking his head, Pacey felt behind him for the doorknob and wrenched it open, rushing from the small room. He didn't know whose ghosts were chasing him suddenly, his own or Andie’s. He didn’t bother to turn off the light, simply slammed the door shut, listening to the harsh acoustics as the sound reverberated in the small room.
The bedroom was darker, though not dark. None of the harsh clinical light that seemed to permeate bathrooms. He stared at the door he’d just closed, almost afraid to blink, as if there were some sort of demon behind it, something tangible that could twist the handle as easily as he could.
Unknotting the towel, he let it fall to the floor, observing himself in disinterest. Out here his skin seemed to fit him again, didn’t seem to be so tight, so loose, so wrong. Finally allowing his eyes to close, he took another deep breath and turned around. If there was something more than a ghost in the bathroom, perhaps it could take him by surprise and free him from whatever was holding him back, holding his emotions in check.
Six beers should have given him the freedom to lose control, should have done something more than sent him sinking into a tubful of lukewarm water. He shook his head and forced his eyes open, wondering why it took so much effort now.
He fell back onto the bed, feeling cool air on his body, cool sheets at his back. He lay there, staring at the ceiling once more. The swirls of paint hadn’t changed. Nothing had changed, even though his life had been turned upside down. He let his eyes drift closed, not wanting to see anymore, think anymore. The night air was cool, the room dark enough, and maybe, just maybe, the beer would keep Andie’s eyes from haunting his sleep.
Jack rested his head against the window, his breath making clouds against the cold glass. "I’d ask what’s wrong, but I have a feeling I know the answer."
He didn’t turn at Daniel’s words, didn’t know if he could face anyone right now, didn’t know if he wanted to show his tears. "It’s that," he admitted. "Maybe more."
"Nothing’s going to happen." Daniel slid off the bed and moved closer to Jack, not touching him, but close enough to reassure him of his presence. "Don’t borrow trouble."
"How can I not when I’m here with you?" Jack’s voice was soft, broken. "I need you on so many levels, and the only one I can have you on is the least satisfying. Not to mention the least private. And now, when I need you the most..."
"I’m right here, Jack."
"And will you be right beside me at my sister’s funeral?"
"Yes."
"Right. Standing there in your uniform. And then you’ll salute me or shake my hand, maybe even rest your other hand on my shoulder before you turn around and walk away, back to the squad car."
"What would you prefer, Jack? That I hug you in front of all your friends, none of whom know about us? That I hold you while you cry over her death while the rest of our department looks on?"
"No." Jack stiffened, hurt and angry from the words. "I don’t want anything more from you."
"I would love to be there at night for you. I would love to hold you through the dark hours, Jack."
"You sound like a fucking soap opera."
"Right. Well, I’m sorry that gay relationships are hard, Jack. And I’m sorry that you picked a job where being gay makes it even harder. And I’m especially sorry that you had the unfortunate bad luck to fall in love with me." Daniel moved away, his warmth no longer comforting.
"That’s not what I said..."
"Oh, and I supposed that while I’m at it, I should apologize for the witch hunt that’s currently circulating around the station and for the Mayor being a fucked up homophobe. Since I’m pretty sure that’s all my fault too."
"Daniel." Jack turned and offered his hand, hating the tension that filled the room, tension he’d brought into it. "I’m sorry."
"Don’t be, Jack." He faced his lover, his face wounded. "Because I haven’t gotten around to apologizing for the part I played in your sister’s death."
Jack froze in his forward motion, no longer moving toward Daniel. "Fuck you." He turned abruptly, gathering up his clothes on his way to the front door. "I’m sorry if my sister’s death is just another burden you’re having to bear, another bitch you’re having to listen to." He shoved his legs into his jeans, his movements as harsh as his voice. "I’m really sorry if I’ve put your life out of whack right along with mine, Daniel."
"Damn it, Jack. Don’t..."
"No. You don’t." He pulled his shirt on and shook his head. "I fucked up your life when I fell for you. Got it. And we're both screwed because we’re gay and we’re hot for each other and we both wear a badge. Well, I’ll tell you what, at least your neck and career aren’t going to be the first ones on the chopping block when the axe falls, Daniel."
"Don’t go there."
Jack didn’t heed the warning, No longer seemed to care. "Especially since your wife and daughter have no idea how many times a week you’re fucking me, right?"
Daniel didn’t say a word as the door slammed behind Jack, didn’t think of anything beyond gathering his things and leaving the apartment that belonged to his sister, heading back home after another double shift at work.
Jack stood in the door of his bedroom for a long time, staring at Pacey. He was vulnerable in his sleep, but obviously unafraid. He slept sprawled and spread out, unconscious of his nakedness. His body gleamed in the moonlight, taunted and tantalized. Jack inched closer, wondering absently if he should feel guilty for watching his brother-in-law so closely, so intimately.
Pacey shifted slightly, his hand moving to rub against the inside of his thigh, scratching the dark hairs that covered his legs. Jack stood beside the bed, wondering where all his emotions were. Even the anger and loss of arguing with Daniel seemed stilted and rehearsed, unreal.
He’d had a huge crush on Pacey in high school and college, but had never acted on it. Not because he’d thought so much about Pacey’s refusal. As heterosexual as Pacey seemed, Jack got the impression he wasn’t close-minded, but because he liked Pacey. He liked having a friend he could laugh and talk with, tease and joke with.
Staring down at him now, Jack vaguely remembered those nights in his bedroom, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he imagined Pacey’s mouth around him, imagined Pacey’s cock in his mouth, imagined writhing against him in sweaty abandon, pressing him against the walls of the shower, their cocks hard against one others. He felt his body respond and his hand reached down, lightly brushing the object of his interest, one finger running over the smooth tip.
That felt real.
Pacey made a soft noise in his sleep, turning away from Jack’s touch. With a sigh that made no sound, Jack stepped away, grabbing a blanket from the foot of the bed. He adjusted it over Pacey’s nude body; unable to stop his fingers from lingering just slightly against Pacey’s shoulders.
Temptation covered, Jack slipped off his jeans and moved to the other side of the bed, lying down on the sheets, mussed and warm from Pacey’s body. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering what Andie had seen in the ceiling as she died.
| Chapter Four |
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