Chapter 34
34
Elliot Crane
When are you coming home?
Seth Mays
When I can.
What do you want me to bring you?
You.
Anything else?
You can’t really eat me.
Wanna bet?
And obtain sufficient vitamins, minerals, and calories for it to count as a meal.
You’re no fun.
I want gyros.
And you shall have them.
Lacy had called me in, telling me that she needed my help with a case. When I got there, she had easily two dozen swabbed samples. “I don’t actually need your help,” she said. “But I thought you might want to be here for this.”
“What’re they from?” I asked, looking at the swabs.
Her face was serious, grey eyes intense over her mask. “The front of an ATV,” she replied.
Tingles swept through my body, and not the good kind. “I’m not supposed?—”
“Which is why you are here to help and not to actually do ,” she replied. “And we are not going to tell Gale that you were anywhere near them. In fact, you aren’t going to even touch them. You’re going to take notes while I do the testing.”
“I can do that.” I wanted to be here. I wanted to know the second anything came back that might confirm who had been threatening Elliot.
I’d stopped to pick up dinner—garlic cheese curds for Elliot along with two traditional gyros, lots of french fries for both of us to share, and two gyros for me, as well, one shrimp and one salmon—hold the feta.
The bags were still hot when I got back to the house, and I pulled up behind Elliot’s truck. There were heavy tracks on the other side of the drive that looked like they belonged to the Harts’ Explorer. I knew they were supposed to have spent the day with Elliot—and that they had dinner plans, so they had to leave in time to get there.
Judy had texted me when they left—I’d been in line at Downtown Gyro, so Elliot hadn’t been alone for very long. Even so, I was extremely grateful when I carried the food into the house and Elliot called a hello.
I set the food down and went into the living room, bending over where he lay propped on the couch, an extra-large ice pack over his shoulder and chest. He was shivering slightly—he always did when he put the ice on—but the surgeon said it was important that he do it for at least fifteen minutes every forty-five minutes—fifteen on, forty-five off, fifteen on, and so on.
“Welcome back,” he said, a small smile curving one side of his mouth. “Do you get Monday off since you worked the whole weekend?”
I bent and kissed his forehead. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
He brightened. “Really?”
“Mmhmm.” I gave him another kiss. “Hungry?”
“Fuck, yes.”
I laughed softly and went back to the kitchen. Although he didn’t swear even remotely as often as Hart did, every now and then he’d drop an f-bomb for no reason, and I was reminded that he and Hart really were best friends.
I put together a plate with his food and brought it to him, also refilling the bottle of water he’d drunk, before making up my own plate and grabbing a beer out of the fridge to go with it.
I settled on the far side of the couch, letting Elliot put his legs on my thighs, although I put my plate on his shins. “Who’s playing?” I asked, referring to the football game on the TV.
“Detroit and Buffalo,” he replied. “Packers are on later.”
“Who do they play?”
“Tampa. The Battle of the Bays.”
I looked over at him. “The what?”
“Battle of the Bays. Tampa Bay. Green Bay.”
I took a bite of the salmon gyro. It was pretty decent. Not like I remembered the lamb ones being, but I couldn’t eat lamb, so…
“Why do sports teams have to turn everything into a Thing?”
Elliot snorted, then swallowed a mouthful of food. “A thing?”
“No—a Thing . Capitalized. The Battle of the Bays, every time they play each other in a regular old game. Like, there’s no need to make it a Thing.”
He barked out a laugh. “Only a non-sports fan would say something like that.”
I winked at him. “Guilty as charged. But this particular sportsball is growing on me.”
Elliot set his plate in his lap so that he could flip me off with his good hand, and we both laughed.
A few minutes passed in silent chewing before I decided I really needed to ask him about Noah and Lulu.
“I—um.”
The problem was that I wasn’t quite sure how to bring it up.
“What?” Elliot asked, struggling a little to pick up a gyro one-handed.
“Do you want me to cut that or something?” I asked.
“No, and I don’t want you to change the subject, either,” he replied, although his tone was light, a little teasing.
I felt my neck flush a little. “Oh. So. Christmas.”
“Do you not celebrate?” he asked.
“No, I do. Well, we do. Which is… kinda the point.”
“What is?” He looked genuinely confused.
“The we part. As in, me and Noah.”
“Ah.” There was weight to that single syllable. Not anger, maybe disappointment? I couldn’t quite tell. “Are you planning to go back to Virginia?” he asked, his voice the kind of carefully even that I knew meant he didn’t like something.
“Well, actually… I was kinda hoping that maybe he could?—”
His head snapped up. “He can stay here,” he interrupted, and he sounded almost excited.
“It’s not just Noah,” I half-mumbled. It was really awkward inviting people to stay at someone else’s house. “It’d also be Lulu.”
“Noah’s partner?”
I nodded.
“Sure. Great.” He grinned at me, then frowned. “What’s Lulu’s last name?” he asked.
“Fontanelle.”
He nodded, committing it to memory. “By the way, you all will most likely be subjected to the unique holiday hell that is the Hart-Bergmann Family Christmas.”
“The what?”
“It’s like National Lampoon, only more midwestern and Teutonic.”
I couldn’t help an incredulous little laugh. “Teutonic?”
“The Hart-Bergmanns are so very German,” he said. “So very, very German.”
“The Hart- Bergmanns ?”
“Ma’s maiden name,” Elliot replied, pulling a piece of gyro meat off his plate with two fingers and eating it. “It’s… something.”
“So it’s both sides of the family?” I asked. “Judy and Marshall?”
“Yup,” Elliot replied, eating a chunk of feta, this time. “Mom and Dad and I used to all go. Henry, sometimes, but usually his sister and her kids come down. And now their kids, so he has a house-full.”
“That’s nice,” I said, wincing a little at how platitudinous that sounded, even though I meant it.
“Yeah,” Elliot agreed, then grinned at me again. “What’s your brother like?” he asked.
“Noah?” I had somehow forgotten that Elliot had never actually met Noah. “Short.”
Elliot snorted. “You’re a giant.”
“I’m shorter than Hart,” I pointed out. I did not add the fact that it was only by an inch.
Elliot rolled his eyes, awkwardly tearing off a piece of pita bread soaked in meat-juice and tzatziki sauce. Mine did not have tzatziki. I took a bite. “Hart is a gangly elven freak,” Elliot replied. “Where on the spectrum of short is Noah?”
“Hmm. Around the same height as Marshall Hart? Maybe a little taller.”
“And he’s trans, right?” There was no judgment in the question.
“Mmhmm. And Lulu is enby.”
“And rich, since I seem to remember they took Noah on some sort of cruise?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Well, this isn’t going to turn into a resort overnight,” Elliot commented. “But I suppose we could dig out Mom’s old decorations and do something with them.”
“Noah loves decorating,” I told him. “I think if you gave him a box full of stuff and let him do what he wanted, he’ll be your friend forever.”
Elliot gave me a little smile, but there was something almost sad in it. “Dad and I never put them up,” he said softly. “Not when we knew we were going over to Ma and Pop’s every year.”
“El, we don’t?—”
“I think I’d like to have them out again,” he said, talking over me. I didn’t mind, given the situation.
“Okay,” I agreed, smiling at him. “And… thank you.”
“What for?” he seemed genuinely confused.
“Letting me invite my brother and his partner into your house?”
His lips quirked up on the side, but there was something in it that seemed… bitter? “It could be your house, too, you know,” he said softly.
The flush returned to my neck. “I—” I wasn’t sure what to say. I wanted to—but I also wasn’t sure.
“Nevermind,” Elliot said softly. I was afraid I’d upset him, but then he smiled at me again. “I want to meet your family,” he said. “You’ve met mine.”
I almost asked him what he meant, then realized he was talking about Henry and Marshall and Judy and Hart. I took refuge from the seriousness of the conversation by teasing. “Your brother’s a dick, you know that, right?”
Elliot’s laugh was a bark. “He really is, isn’t he? Just a total fucking asshole.”
I grinned right back at him. “Absolutely. He’s lucky he’s pretty.”
Elliot chuckled. “He is now,” he said. “He used to be a toady little asshole.”
It was my turn to snort.
“Ma’ll show you pictures.” He grinned. “You can watch his ears turn bright pink.”
I smiled back, and Elliot settled a little, shifting his legs against mine before stuffing more meat and soaked pita into his mouth, his features settled into contented lines.
Noah and Lulu were going to come for Christmas. Here. With Elliot and me. And also apparently Hart’s family. Noah and I had never had a big family Christmas—and most people, even if they didn’t go home for other holidays, did for Christmas, so we couldn’t even do a friend-based version. Even Hands and Paws was mostly empty, people trying to reunite with family if they could.
It didn’t always end well—lots of people ended up right back at the shelter, a new, depressing chapter added to the stories of their family tragedies.
Speaking of…
“So…” I began, swirling a fry in ketchup. “Smith got a warrant to check Buettner’s ATV for evidence.”
Elliot stilled, a breaded cheese curd partway to his mouth. “He did?”
“Mmhmm,” I answered around a fry.
“And?” His voice was tight, tense.
“Lacy found three different blood types,” I replied. “We’re waiting on the DNA to finish processing, but we’ve identified blood from two different shifters and one badger.”
“ Two shifters?” His voice went up.
“Two,” I confirmed.
“Who’s the other one?”
“No idea,” I replied. “We’ll see if DNA gets us anything conclusive.”
He was quiet. “They have to confirm it’s mine, too, don’t they?”
“They do,” I told him. “But they will.”
Elliot ate his cheese curd, his expression serious. “And then what?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“He gets fined? Arrested?”
I blew out a breath. “Arrested, certainly. For attempted vehicular homicide, if nothing else. Unless they can ID the other shifter as—” I broke off.
“Dead?” Elliot supplied.
I nodded, kicking myself internally for bringing the whole thing up. I’d wanted to share good news, but it wasn’t, not really. It meant that Smith was making progress on the case, but I was starting to understand why police didn’t keep people constantly updated. Because every step forward raised more questions and did surprisingly little in real terms. Yeah, we’d found the blood samples, and that would move things forward, but there hadn’t been an arrest or even an arrest warrant. We were just waiting to see if this really was it, or if there were two other shifters out there somewhere who’d been hit by an ATV.
It didn’t seem likely, given how small a town Shawano was, but it was technically possible. So we had to wait.
I knew that was ultimately a good thing—the fact that we had to assume innocence until guilt was at least plausible if not proven before we arrested people, deprived them of their liberty. Certainly before we permanently locked them away—or, at least, for a long time.
“So how long is the prison sentence for failing to run someone over with an ATV?” Elliot asked, his tone dark. “Assuming we can even prove that he hit me on purpose.”
“Ten years, I think,” I replied.
“So like five for good behavior, assuming it’s the maximum penalty, and then he gets out and comes after me again.” Elliot was definitely not happy.
“I mean?—”
“Unless someone was killed. Then what?”
“Twenty-five if there’s no prior conviction, I think,” I answered. “More if there is.”
“And if it’s both of us? Does that make thirty-five, or just the twenty-five?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, feeling worse than ever. “It probably depends on the judge.”
Elliot sighed. “Great. So like two years, then.”
I wanted to argue with him—but I knew better. I knew that judges were often biased against shifters. Against Indigenous people. Maybe even against gay men, depending on who they were. So it was possible Elliot was right—a judge could issue a short sentence using whatever bullshit excuse Buettner came up with.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, staring down at my food, no longer hungry.
“Seth.”
I looked over at him.
“Thanks for letting me know what’s going on.”
I sighed. “Sure.” I poked at some of the salmon that had fallen out of my gyro with a fork.
“Seth.”
“What?” I asked without looking over.
“Look at me?”
I looked at him, finding his expression serious. “What?” I repeated.
“I mean it,” he said. “Thank you for telling me. I’d rather know what’s going on, even if it’s bad news, and this isn’t bad. Okay?”
I nodded, but I still felt like shit.
Elliot fell asleep during the second quarter, and I went into the kitchen to make something sweet to soothe myself. I was still feeling bad about the fact that what had been exciting to me had just caused Elliot more anxiety, even though he’d told me repeatedly that he wanted to know everything I knew about the case, even if it was bad.
Elliot was the better baker, but I would do in a pinch. I mixed together the flour, vegan butter, sugar, some oats, baking powder and soda, raisins, vanilla, an egg. While the oven heated, I mixed it all together, worried about Elliot, worried about what would happen when Noah and Lulu came out for Christmas.
I sighed, scooped the cookie dough onto two sheet pans, and stuck them in the oven before washing up the bowl and measuring cups.
Elliot’s fractured hazel eyes were slitted open when I walked back into the living room, a timer set on my watch.
“Did you make me dessert?” he mumbled.
“Cookies, yeah.”
“Christmas cookies?”
I snorted. “We don’t have Christmas cookie decorations,” I told him. “So no. Just oatmeal raisin.”
“I like oatmeal raisin.”
“Give it ten or so minutes,” I told him.
He held out his good hand, and I walked over and took it with one of mine. He brought my fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. “One of the things I love about you is the fact that you tell me what’s going on, you know,” he said, his voice serious and soft.
I felt emotion pushing against the back of my throat. “El?—”
“I mean it. Even when I don’t want to hear it.”
I frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
He kissed my fingers again. “Like when you told me you cared about me—and I didn’t want to hear it.”
“Oh,” I said softly.
“When you told me I had to be more careful, after the badger.”
I swallowed, but didn’t know what to say.
“When you told me to not to mix up the foxglove for Lonnie.”
He kissed my fingers again.
“And when you refused to leave me on my own.”
I winced. Because I had left him on his own.
“Not what I meant, Seth,” he chided, although gently. “You stayed with me when I needed you, even though I was being a total dick.”
I shrugged, my neck flushing. “You weren’t being?—”
He interrupted me with a snort. “I absolutely was. One with my head so far up my ass I should have been able to see out my own nostrils.”
I blinked, startled. “That’s a horrifying image,” I told him.
“Seth,” he said, sounding a little stern. “I started falling in love with you when you first smiled at me.” He squeezed my fingers. “I was just being a stupid dickhead who thought he knew better.”
I stared at him. Had he really been falling in love with me the whole time I’d been falling in love with him? “Then why…?”
“Because I thought that I could keep myself from getting hurt by pretending I didn’t have feelings for you. Because I’m clearly a complete and utter dumbass.” He nuzzled my fingers, and when he spoke again, his breath was warm on my skin. “I haven’t had a lot of luck with relationships,” he said softly. “So I just figured I shouldn’t have any.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“I tried to keep you from getting too close because I knew I was falling for you.”
“That makes no sense,” I blurted.
The smile he gave me was a little melancholy. “I never thought you would feel the same way. And then when you did… I panicked. Because I was bound to fuck it up somehow.” He snorted. “And then I very nearly did.”
“You didn’t?—”
“Oh, yes, I did,” he retorted. “I just managed to somehow convince you not to hate me, even though I fully deserved it.”
“El—”
The timer on my watch—attached to the wrist of the hand Elliot was holding—buzzed, causing me to jump a little and Elliot to look down at my hand in confusion.
“Cookies,” I explained, the flush creeping higher up my neck.
“I shouldn’t interrupt that,” he said, letting go of my hand.
It felt oddly cold now that his skin wasn’t in contact with mine.
“Okay,” I said, then turned, almost on autopilot, back to the kitchen to retrieve the cookies.
I brought Elliot a mug of milk with his, and he smiled at me, then set both on the side table. “Don’t leave,” he said, his voice low.
“I’m not going anywhere?” I had intended to go back to my spot on the couch, but instead stayed where I was, holding a mug of almond milk with my own plate of cookies balanced on the top. Elliot took it from me and put it with his on the table, then he took my hand and pulled me toward him.
“Closer,” he urged softly.
“El, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I don’t want that, either,” he replied. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want a kiss.”
I let him kiss me, or, rather, I meant to just let him kiss me softly, but the moment his mouth met mine, I couldn’t help leaning a little into him, my lips parting involuntarily. Elliot took it as the invitation it was, and he claimed my mouth with his tongue, his good hand fisted in the front of my shirt, pulling me into him.
I let out a soft grunt as I lost my balance, throwing out an arm to catch myself on the couch. Elliot let go of my shirt, but put his hand on the waistband of my jeans—it hadn’t technically been a work day, so I’d stayed dressed casually even when I went in to meet Lacy.
“El,” I protested, pulling back a little.
“Stop talking,” he told me. “And kiss me.”
I didn’t have it in me to argue with him.