6. LUCAS #2
Max let me fuss for a minute, then retrieved his hand. “It’s fine, Lucas,” he said, tucking it into his lap. “It was just a drop. I’ve had worse injuries from rubbing against a stripper pole.”
And didn’t that bring up a mental image or two? Max, sleek and muscled, twining himself around a pole under the hot lights, sweating, grinding…
Ah, fuck, there went my cock again. I felt a cold sweat spring out on my forehead. I coughed and took a step back. “Er, right. Sorry. I just…” I waved a hand helplessly. “Worry.”
He mirrored my movement, backing his chair away and turning it back toward the stove.
He picked the spoon back up and started stirring again, more carefully this time.
“I know you can’t be my world,” he said gruffly, staring at the side of the pot and not at me.
“I just...don’t trust the rest of the world right now. ”
“Honey,” I said, the endearment slipping out before I could stop it, “this is what OT is supposed to be helping you with: getting comfortable navigating in this new world you find yourself in. Have you told them you feel this way?”
“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I could be proud as anything of being fucked up and people would still stare. Being ‘comfortable’ won’t change that.”
“You are not ‘fucked up’!” I said fiercely, squatting down to put my face near his. “You lost part of a leg. Big deal. You’re not the first person it’s happened to. The rest of the world can suck it; what do you care what they think or if they look at you?”
“Because it hurts!” he shouted, flinging the spoon he’d been holding across the room, where it smashed into the wall with a bang.
Soup spattered everywhere. We both froze, shocked by his outburst. Max could be grumpy, but I’d never seen him act out physically before.
I nearly fell on my ass from my squat in my shock.
“Sorry,” he muttered, and wheeled forward to go pick up the spoon.
I stood and put out a hand to grab the arm of his chair, forcing him to stop. “What hurts, Max?”
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, then let it out.
“Everything. Their eyes. Their judgments. A couple people have thanked me ‘for my service’, assuming I’m a vet who got injured in the war.
I’m just some schmuck who can’t read my phone and cross the street at the same time and walked under a car! ”
“You hardly ‘walked under a car’,” I protested.
“You got hit by a drunk driver. It wasn’t your fault.
And it’s not your fault if people make dumb assumptions about you, either.
Or if they wonder why you’re in the chair.
You have no responsibility to them to answer their questions or even meet their eyes. ”
“And I can’t forget about it for a second,” he went on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“If I’m not in pain, I’m struggling to move my chair.
If I’m not struggling to move my chair, I’m having to sit down to piss and shower.
I just…” He ran a hand through his short hair.
“It’s everything, all the time. And I -” The timer on the stove went off, startling us both.
I reached over him and turned it off so he didn’t have to press up in his chair. He kept his head lowered, not looking at me, and I tentatively reached out and touched his hair. “Max, look at me.”
Shaking his head, he slid the pot onto a cold burner. “Lunch is ready.”
“Max…”
“Can we just eat, please?” he pleaded.
I sighed. “Fine.” I reached up to get bowls out of the cabinet and handed them to him; he set them both on the counter, and I carefully filled them with soup.
Max grabbed spoons from a drawer and we carried our stuff to the small bistro-style table and set them down.
I watched as Max maneuvered himself skillfully past the wall to take his place at the table.
“You’re getting really good at that,” I said, trying for peacemaking.
He shrugged. “Not much choice,” he said flatly, and picked up his spoon.
We ate in tense silence, so unlike our usual lively conversation.
I was trying desperately to think of what I could say that would help Max, but I kept coming back to the fact that I knew nothing about coping with limb loss or any other kind of physical disability.
I was able-bodied and always had been, and all I was doing was taking my best guesses about what to say and not say to him.
What if I was doing more harm than good? “Max?” I finally said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I think you should look into therapy. Actual psychological therapy, not just OT. Or at least a limb loss support group. You need to talk to people who know how to help you work things out in your mind. Maybe people who’ve had the same experiences as you.”
He started to shake his head, then paused, thinking. “No therapy,” he finally said, completing the head-shake. “I’m not mentally ill.”
“I didn’t say you were. Therapy isn’t just good for mental illness; it can help healthy people work through stuff too. It’s a sounding board, a safe space to be sad or angry or uncertain.”
He cocked his head to the side, studying me. “You sound like you know from experience.”
I smiled sadly. “I’m in a traumatic line of work. I’ve seen people die. I’ve seen people burned beyond recognition.” I shuddered. “I’ve smelled people burned beyond recognition.”
Max’s eyes were intense on me. “You’ve done therapy?”
“On my own and with other first responders,” I confirmed. “It’s really not so bad. It can be hard and scary, but you come out the other end stronger and, hopefully, more resilient.”
He sighed softly, seeming to crumble in on himself in surrender. “Maybe a support group.”
Yes! I resisted the urge to fistpump and instead just smiled at him again. “Why don’t we look into finding one after we finish eating? I’ll help.”
He rolled his eyes. “You just want to make sure I do it.”
“Um, yeah.”
He took the last bite of his soup and set his spoon down. “I also think I should consider telling my work I’m ready to start.”
I stopped with my spoon halfway to my mouth. Where had that come from? “Max,” I said gently, “if you can’t stand to even leave the apartment most of the time…”
“Maybe they could support my working remotely. I’d just…
” He shot me a look from under his lashes.
“Even if they agree, I’d probably need your help getting into the office to get my gear to get started.
” He looked like the words tasted bad on his tongue.
He clearly hated having to rely on me for yet another thing.
I finished the bite I’d been taking and then put my spoon down in my bowl and studied him. “You’re more than welcome to a ride any time you need it, Max. But are you sure you’re ready to work? You’re still in the midst of a huge recovery process. There’s no reason to push yourself too fast.”
“I need to be able to contribute,” he said. “I haven’t not worked since I was a young teenager. It’s dumb for me to sit around here on my ass while you work all day to pay the rent. And I’m bored, anyway.”
Ah, so he’d found his sense of guilt. “Hey, look.” I reached over and covered his hand with mine.
“I’m not going to stop you if you want to work, but I need you to know that I’m doing just fine without you chipping in on the rent or whatever.
You don’t need to work just because you feel like you owe me money for letting you stay here, because you don’t.
I didn’t need it before you; I don’t need it now.
And whatever form your job takes, you need to make sure that it doesn’t take away from your recovery. No skipping OT or PT. No losing sleep.”
His eyes, dull up to now, began to sparkle with humor. “Yes, mom.”
I grinned. “Hey, don’t make me send you to your room.”
“I could be persuaded to go to bed,” he said, lifting an eyebrow suggestively and turning his hand so he could tickle my palm with it.
Was he flirting with me? Surely not. I was reading way too much into things because ok, fine, Rufus was right, I had a crush. “Afternoon nap, huh?” I managed awkwardly, pulling my hand back before my dick got into the act. “Well, I did tell you no losing sleep.”
He blinked a few times, looking confused, and then his face went neutral, and he offered me a casual smile. “You sure did. But on second thought, I think I’m too awake for a nap. Wanna watch some Netflix?”
More time with Max? Sign me up. “Sure!” I watched him wheel over to the couch and transfer onto it, and then I cleared the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. “Another episode of Natural Detective?” I called.
“Of course,” his voice floated in from the living room. “And I’m starting it without you if you don’t get in here in 3...2...1....”
I jogged into the room and plopped down next to him, my arm jostling his as I sat a little too close even though the couch was big enough for us to spread out. “Ok, ok, I’m here.”
He elbowed me playfully. “If by ‘here’ you mean ‘practically on Max’s lap’, yeah.”
“Oh.” Suddenly nervous, I shifted over to give him some room. “Sorry.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean that.” He hooked an arm around my neck and pulled me toward him again as if we were play-wrestling.
I ended up sprawled half over his lap. “Didn’t say anything about ‘on my lap’ being a bad thing.
Feel free to climb on any time.” He didn’t move his arm from around my neck for a few seconds, just long enough for me to fantasize that he wasn’t going to move it at all, and then he released me and gave my shoulder a gentle push to straighten me up.
I swallowed and tried not to stare at him, imagining a world where instead of letting me go, he’d continued to hold me to him, ducked his head, and kissed me.
God, I had it bad.