14. Nikolaus #3
I find myself tracking the way Charlie’s voice, exhausted by the effort, sometimes cracks and vanishes entirely, forcing silence into the room.
The speed with which he apologizes for what sounds like “whining.” The deep, bone-deep trust it must take to let a stranger near his body, to let his sleeve be rolled up and his skin prodded and pressed and measured.
I watch with my hands squeezed into fists as the doctor takes what seems like a gallon of fucking blood from Charlie.
The sight of blood vessels collapsing and filling, the sharp bite of the needle, Charlie’s hand clutching at the upholstery of the sofa while he shivers through it—it ignites something animal in me.
An urge to leap between them, to erase every doctor who ever made him endure this for nothing.
He keeps his eyes shut tight, lips pressed hard enough to drain them of color, jaw trembling with the effort not to cry or, god forbid, vomit.
I hold my own hands together tightly in my lap, and I do not move.
He asked me not to intervene unless it was urgent, but for someone like him, the threshold for “urgent” feels bewilderingly high.
When it’s finally over, and the doctor steps away to pack and seal each vial, Charlie lets his head drop forward, posture folding inward so completely that his chin almost disappears into the collar of his shirt.
I offer him a glass of water, already poured, which he receives wordlessly, hands shaking so badly that it’s a miracle he doesn’t spill it all over himself.
The silence that settles is heavy and exhausted.
The doctor pulls on his coat and gathers the small pelican case containing Charlie’s blood, then gestures awkwardly.
“I’ll be in touch once I have the results.
We’ll go from there. For now, continue your current medication regimen, and please reach out if any new symptoms develop.
” He sounds as if he means it, but Charlie just nods, gulping water as if trying to rinse himself of the past hour.
The door clicks shut behind the doctor, and the hush is immediate and absolute. I let it linger for as long as I can, waiting for Charlie to reassemble the fragments of himself that the appointment has scattered.
He raises the glass to his lips again, finishes the water in two gulps, then sets it on the edge of the coffee table.
He doesn’t look up. His hands splay across his thighs, fingers opening and closing as if measuring the effort it would take to stand, to walk, to exist as a person who is not devastated by so much nothing.
He says, “You can say it.”
I am not sure what I’m supposed to say, but I know well enough to be silent. He tips his head back, eyes shut, and exhales with a shudder that is half sob, half surrender.
“I’m too much,” he says, and his voice is so faint that if I weren’t already listening for it, I might miss it entirely. “It’s okay if you don’t want me anymore. I’m sure you didn’t expect all this when you took me.”
I wait for him to say it again, to elaborate, to plead—because some hidden, wolfish part of me would savor it—but he just sits there, staring at a point somewhere a thousand miles below the coffee table, as if he might fall through the floor at any moment and never stop falling.
The urge to comfort him is so consuming that it almost reads as hunger. I put my hand over his, thumb stretching carefully across the trembling knuckles. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, but he doesn’t lean in, either. He sits, perfectly hollowed out, and lets me warm the bones of his hand for him.
“Charlie,” I say quietly, “do you think I want you because you’re easy?”
He opens his mouth, then shrugs and laughs once, a splintered thing. “Isn’t that true? You only took me cause I was alone and… yeah, easy.”
“I want you because you’re mine,” I say, and press down, gentle but unyielding. “And I take care of what’s mine.” I can see the question blooming in his face—what if I’m too broken to take care of? But he’s too tired to voice it.
“I just…” Charlie sighs. “I’m finding it hard to understand how you took one look at me and decided that. It’s easier to ignore when I’m really little, but when I look at it as an adult, it’s just…”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “You can’t have wanted this,” he says, gesturing at his own body like it’s a broken piece of furniture left on the curb. “I mean, you saw me. You must have had your pick of like a hundred better…”
I squeeze his hand, feel the flutter of his pulse under my thumb.
“I saw you, Charlie. I wanted you. And maybe it’s insane, but I swear to fucking god with just one look at you, I knew you were mine.
I knew you were different than the rest. Give me a chance to prove that, baby boy. You told me yesterday you would try.”
He keeps his gaze locked on the table. “I…” He blinks rapidly, fighting off the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “I will, Niko, I’m just… It’s all just a lot. I’m sorry.”
He.
Called.
Me.
Niko.
It’s not quite the “Daddy” I’ve been hoping to hear from his sweet mouth, but fuck if it doesn’t put me on cloud nine.
“How about we get you upstairs, get you into some comfy clothes, and have a lazy day?”
I rise from the sofa before Charlie can summon the energy to argue. The doctor’s visit has drained what little reserve he had at the start of the morning, and it shows in every movement. Charlie lets himself be guided to his feet, and I walk us out of the den.
The moment we step out into the hallway, a familiar voice calls after us. “Niko.” Constantine is already striding toward us, a phone pressed against one ear and a tablet tucked beneath his arm. Even at a distance, I can tell by his expression that something has gone wrong.
Charlie visibly shrinks at the interruption.
I squeeze his shoulder gently and tell him, “It’s alright, sweetheart,” before turning to my friend. “What is it?”
“Another shipment problem,” Constantine answers, frustration marring his features. “The New Jersey transfer never arrived. We have reason to believe—”
“You can handle it.”
Constantine stops walking. “I can,” he agrees. “But you should probably know—”
“I don’t want to know.”
That earns me a look.
Normally, I would want every detail. Even when I delegate, I prefer to understand exactly what’s happening. It’s one of the reasons I’ve survived as long as I have.
Right now, though, Charlie is standing beside me, looking like he might collapse.
“You have my authority,” I say. “Whatever decision you think is appropriate, make it.”
Constantine’s gaze flicks toward Charlie, and a slow sigh escapes him as understanding dawns. “Of course.”
“For the next few hours,” I continue, “I am unavailable.”
“Niko—”
“Unavailable.”
He rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll deal with it.”
“Good.”
We stare at one another for a moment, Constantine clearly disapproving of me blowing off work, but then he looks at Charlie, his expression softening just barely.
“Get some rest,” he tells him.
Charlie blinks in surprise. “O-okay. Um… thank you.”
With that, Constantine turns and heads in the opposite direction, already bringing the phone back to his ear.
I watch him disappear around the corner before guiding Charlie the rest of the way toward the staircase.
As we climb, I feel something inside me slowly begin to settle.
The doctor has left me furious; not at him specifically, but at so many others.
At every person who looked at those symptoms and failed to keep digging.
At every doctor who allowed a twenty-five-year-old man to become convinced that debilitating pain and exhaustion were simply facts of life.
At every employer who treated him like a burden.
And at every person who taught him to apologize for being sick.
The more I learn, the stronger my conviction becomes.
Charlie needs me.
Someone who won’t leave when things become complicated.
Someone who will make sure he eats, sleeps, rests, and takes his medication.
Someone who will fight for answers when he’s too exhausted to fight anymore.
Someone who will take him from surviving to living.
Someone like me.
By the time we reach the nursery, Charlie is practically swaying on his feet. I open the door and usher him inside, feeling warm as Charlie lets out a sweet little exhale.
I lead my baby over to the daybed beneath the window and kneel in front of him as he practically collapses onto the mattress.
“Would you like to be diapered, or do you want to stay in your training pants?” I ask, placing my hands on Charlie’s thighs.
He refused to see the doctor in anything “too little,” as he put it, which was fine, especially since either way, I have complete control over his wardrobe.
In lieu of a diaper, I’d dressed him in a pair of adorable training pants; they had a bit more padding than typical underwear, and would still feel nice and secure for Charlie, but wouldn’t be noticeable under clothing the way diapers sometimes are.
I also have enough sense to understand why Charlie wouldn’t have wanted to feel too small for a meeting like that.
Now, though, he has a choice.
Charlie doesn’t answer right away. He lets his head loll to the side, cheek mashed into the daybed pillow, arms flopped at his sides.
In the silence, I trace the faint purple shadows under his eyes.
The urge to gather him up—scoop him into my lap, press his face against my throat, and rock him until he remembers he’s safe—flares so hard it’s almost an ache.
I knead my thumbs into his thighs, slow and steady, and repeat the question in a murmur. “Diaper, or training pants?”
He shrugs, then, voice gone rubbery at the edges: “Whatever you want. I don’t care.”
For some reason, this breaks my heart a little. I cup his knee, squeeze it, and say, “Let’s get you cozy, then. You did so well today. I’m so proud of you, Charlie.”
He closes his eyes and lets me do the rest.