4. Rishi
4
Rishi
P acking an apartment was not in my job description, but neither were most of the other things I had been doing since I took this post, so I did it without question. I had kept my distance as much as I could, especially since the day in the rental office. I was happy for him and had let my guard down because he found a nice place so quickly, and for a minute, I read something unexpected on his face.
Shock and desire.
The next moment, his face had shuttered and hardened, and the tone he used to order me after him rivaled my old drill sergeants.
I followed, helping him into the transport van and then out again once we reached what would soon be his former apartment. I carried him up the stairs and did everything I needed to do to help him, all while not looking at him more than necessary. I wasn’t sure if he felt that he had crossed a line or that I had, but I didn’t want to allow that mistake to be made again.
Packing his apartment and hiring movers took another week. I checked in daily with the team at Alden, but there had been no threat around Cas that I could detect since he had been released. John and Marcus were sure it was coming eventually, and I was happy to spend more time with Cas, even though I wasn’t sure he wanted me there. The man was ridiculously hot, and I found his dry sarcasm and quick humor even more attractive than his appearance. I was careful to keep a formal distance between us. He often needed my help for private things like hygiene, and I didn’t want my admiration to make him uncomfortable.
Thankfully Cas didn’t own a lot of stuff, which certainly helped when moving day came. The movers piled everything in the living room of the new apartment, so when Cas and I showed up after them, we went right to work on the pile.
The apartment was on the smaller side and not symmetrical, with a nice-sized living-slash-dining room, a small kitchen, two closets, and a big bedroom. The walls were a warm, creamy gray with navy and white striped drapes on the bedroom window and navy linen roll-up blinds on the corner windows of the living room.
Most of the bedroom storage was built with a wheelchair-bound tenant in mind. I moved boxes that were labeled for a specific room where they belonged, and Cas started unpacking the bedroom. Two dressers, both an antiqued white, were already there, and Cas rolled to one and immediately started putting his clothes away in it when I laid the suitcase on the bed for him. I was about to ask if he wanted me to help hang anything, but then I caught a glimpse of the closet and closed my mouth. The bar was mounted low enough that Cas would be able to reach on his own.
Figuring he had the bedroom under control, I returned to the main area, grabbed the cold groceries that had ridden over with me, and put them away. Once I was done with that, I went back to the living room and attached the TV to the wall mount that was already in place.
“Cas, where do you want the computer?” I called once I was done with the TV. “There’s a desk out here in the living room.”
Cas came around the corner that led to the bedroom. “That’d be good, thanks,” he said, then noticed the TV and raised his brows. “Thanks again,” he said, nodding toward it before he wheeled away again.
Cas was finished with the bedroom by the time I was done with the computer — it was a nice one; I was a little surprised when I saw it. The tower pulsed cobalt at a rate that was nearly meditative, the screen was generous and curved, and the mouse and joystick were obviously well used but also well cared for. I rarely gamed, but I, like most people who even dabbled, had priced out a nice gaming computer at one point and had been shocked. I wondered if Cas had built this one to spec. “All ready for you,” I said with a smile.
“Sweet,” Cas said. “I haven’t played since before I got hurt,” he grinned as he wheeled towards me and the computer and quickly typed his password in. A few mouse clicks after it finished booting, and I saw several updates begin running.
“Do you want me to do the kitchen, or do you want to put things away so you know where they are?” I asked.
“I should probably do it. You wanna get some takeout for dinner while I work on it?” He pulled out his wallet and handed me his card. “Indian, if that’s okay. I haven’t had Indian food since I got hurt, either.”
We hadn’t really been eating meals together, just sort of making do on our own, so this gesture was a surprise. It seemed the new apartment had put Cas in a much better mood than before, so I just nodded, accepted the card, and smiled politely. “What would you like?”
“Lamb biryani and some papadum, and dahi chutney on the side. I’ll take a Pepsi, too, if they have it,” he said.
“Of course. I’ll work on that.”
I went online and found a nice Indian place about two miles from the apartment and ordered what Cas wanted, then debated about what I wanted for a few minutes before I chose my food, too. I stayed out in the living room, playing on my phone while I waited for the delivery to show up. When I got tired of my phone, I put a few boxes of books on the bookshelves. I didn’t want to get in Cas’s way in the kitchen.
He was nearly done putting things away when the food arrived, and we sat down at the small table in the corner of the kitchen to eat.
“I had Indian food just before I was shot,” Cas said after he had eaten about half of his dinner. “There was a place walking distance from my old apartment. Saint and I showed Rio what was good there, and we had a nice dinner. We were walking back to Saint’s car when it happened.” He was talking to his fork, face smooth and expressionless. “I wondered for a little while if I’d be able to eat it again, but it sounded good today.” His eyes flicked up to me. “Good sign, right?”
I nodded. “I think so,” I said. “Are you enjoying it?”
He nodded back, forking up a perfect bite onto a piece of the papadum. “Thanks for getting it.”
“No problem. Besides, you paid for it.” I smiled at him teasingly, but I knew I’d made a misstep when his face lost expression again, and he looked back down at his food. The silence felt awkward, and I fumbled in my head for something to say to resume the conversation.
“I like your dishtowels,” I finally blurted, nodding toward the towel that hung on the oven door. An umbrella and a steaming takeaway coffee cup adorned it, with initials on both the curved handle of the umbrella and written in the steam of the coffee: “MH” and “GL.”
Cas laughed, sounding a little shocked. “Oh? Yeah, that was an impulse purchase. It goes with a fandom I follow.”
I crinkled my brow. “Fandom?”
Cas ducked his head and chuckled. His cheeks were slightly red. “You know Sherlock Holmes? There’s this BBC show, with Mark Gatiss and Rupert Graves.” He huffed a little. “There’s a huge selection of fan-written stories online about the character. I’ve always enjoyed writing, and I sort of stumbled into writing those stories after I got into the show. It’s a sort of non-judgmental way for people to read what I write.”
“You write?” I asked. I knew he often spent time on his tablet, with the Bluetooth keyboard connected, but I wasn’t sure what he was doing, and I was the last person to pry into someone’s business like that.
Cas nodded. “Yeah. I’m a ‘Mystrade shipper,’ as they say. It’s a nice escape. I’ve been working on one where Greg Lestrade, who is a police detective, is hurt in the line of duty. Kind of an outlet for all of this.” He gestured down at himself, then shrugged self-consciously.
I knew I was smiling, probably too wide, but what Cas had just revealed pleased me unreasonably. Both the fact that he wrote gay fiction and the fact that he was using it to channel such a challenging experience in a productive and creative way. “I think that’s great, Cas, honestly. I’ve never really been able to write like that, but I’ve heard of fan fiction. My younger sister used to write it. It sounds like fun.”
Cas flushed deeper. “It is,” he said quietly, then pushed back from the table. “I still have to unpack the living room. Would you be okay cleaning up?” he asked, gesturing at the take-out containers on the table.
I could appreciate that he needed some distance after one of the most real conversations we’d had to date, and I was more than willing to let him have it. “Sure, just yell if you need help, and thanks again for dinner.” I watched his back muscles work as he turned his chair and made his way into the living room, lecturing myself the whole time about it being inappropriate. It didn’t stop me.
***
After the warmth of that dinner, I wondered if our relationship would be a little easier, and in some ways, it was. Cas was also very happy with the freedom that his new apartment, with its lower surfaces and modified furnishings, allowed him.
After a few days, however, the greater independence seemed to make Cas even more impatient with the things he still could not do on his own. He wasn’t rude or unkind, but he was more easily frustrated. I was having a hard time with it as well. The more Cas could do for himself, the less I could convince myself that he was vulnerable and that my attraction to him was unacceptable.
The home health nurse was still assisting him in showering several times a week, which was even easier now that the shower had an assortment of grab bars and a built-in seat instead of a portable one. The nurse had been and gone the day before, assisting Cas while she was there, but the night had been stuffy and warm, and I could see that he was uncomfortable the next day.
“That’s it,” Cas finally announced midafternoon. “I’m showering. I stink, and I’m sticky, and I’m done.”
I opened my mouth but then closed it again. Surely, with the bars and the fact that there had been no modesty on Cas’s part since shortly after I took the post, we could manage a shower.
I followed him to the bathroom and stood while he stripped his shirt off and turned on the faucet.
He glanced at me over his shoulder and snorted at me. “You don’t have to stand at parade rest in the bathroom,” he chuckled. “Just spot me, let me do it.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied cheekily.
Cas managed to get into the shower without incident, standing long enough with one hand on the grab bar to pull his shorts down. I politely averted my eyes, focusing on his upper body while he carefully situated himself the way the nurse taught him. The shower floor was ridged to be skid-resistant, and there was a bench that started right at the entrance so that Cas could hold onto the bars, turn, and sit down without needing to step over anything or balance precariously.
I was very impressed with whoever had designed this apartment building. The accessibility was a dream.
“Do you want to take some time and enjoy the water?” I asked once Cas looked comfortable.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you when I’m ready to get out, thanks man.” Cas looked happier with the cool water streaming over him in the big glass shower, so I went out to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. I make a mean iced coffee, and I was wondering if he would like it.
The coffee was brewed, and I was considering checking on Cas when I heard a shout and a thud, and my heart jumped to my throat as I ran for the bathroom.
Cas lay tangled in his chair with the footrest — always attached, usually folded up as he sometimes scooted himself with his foot on the floor — jammed into his shoulder in what looked to be a very painful way, with a grimace on his face.
“What happened?” came out of my mouth before I could stop it, and I immediately winced. “I’m sorry,” I said, bending to check his eyes and neck quickly. “Where does it hurt the most? Do you think you hurt your neck or leg?”
“No,” Cas grunted. “Get me up out of this mess,” he said. “I almost had it, and my hand slipped.”
I was not going to ask why he had tried to transfer without calling for me the way he promised because “I told you so” wasn’t going to get us anywhere. I was, however, about to ask something else that would piss Cas off. “Do you think we should go get you checked out? Did you bump your head?” I felt the back of his head and found a goose egg growing.
Cas growled deep in his chest; I checked the shiver that sound sent through me, then he sighed. “Maybe. Fuck. Mostly, it’s my shoulder. I almost caught myself and wrenched it a little.”
I helped him up into the chair, covered his lap with a towel, and gently inspected his shoulder. Of course, like every other soldier, I had field medicine training, but my specialty had been strategy and planning. I was not infantry and not particularly experienced or adept at first aid. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“Christ, no, please,” Cas grumbled. “I think I can ride in your car. Would you drive me?”
“Of course. Let’s get you dressed, and we can go.”
As I helped Cas dress, I noticed blood on his hand and frowned in confusion; then, the picture of what had happened bloomed in my mind. He had been swinging himself around, reaching for the bar closer to his chair, but his hand had slipped, tearing his nails in the process. He had tried again, but the momentum combined with wet hands had worked against him, and down he went.
I pushed Cas out to my car and helped him transfer, tucked my laptop bag with my computer and Cas’s tablet inside in case of a wait, and slid into the driver’s seat.