The Mythology of Love (Patreon)

Okay, I changed the reference to lust to point out that the rapist interpreted his feelings as lust when they were really about power and dysfunction.  I have also changed the chapter titles so that each gives a month, and when a new year starts, the year.  So I am repeating the last "chapter" from yesterday's post and then here are some new chapters, including work that's new to those of you who remember the fanfic.

September 25th

"David, you have to save me from the sadist," Scott insisted as David came in at the end of the physical therapy session. Scott stunk of sweat, his blue t-shirt stained wet as he struggled with the parallel bars. His left leg still kicked wide with each step and the foot landed on the instep so it couldn't bear his weight. David could see Scott arms tremble from the hard work out.

"One more lap, and I'll let you escape," Randy promised as he walked behind Scott, his hands at Scott's waist.

"I should warn you, my partner is special ops. He can so totally kill someone with a paperclip," Scott said with a knowing look in Randy's direction.

Randy just laughed. "Creative death threats do not work. Come one, one more lap, and this time, get the weight on that lazy leg of yours and not your arms," he prompted.

Scott huffed in frustration as Randy practically lifted Scott, helping him turn so he could walk the length of the parallel bars back toward the waiting wheelchair. With slow and painful steps, Scott covered the distance silently. David listened to the labored breathing, the drag of Scott's left foot across the mat as Scott struggled to get it to respond to the brain's signals again.

The doctors kept talking about how lucky he was. He had recovered with his personality intact, minimal vision loss in his left eye, and a seriously lazy leg, but he had recovered. Some days David felt like they were lucky. Other days, watching Scott struggle to walk a dozen steps as he panted and made that little whine every time he put weight on his left leg… those days David refused to call them lucky.

"You're still the reigning champ," Randy congratulated Scott as he virtually collapsed into his wheelchair. Scott drew a deep and shuddering breath as he gave Randy the best smile he could manage. After seeing how some of the patients took their frustrations out on the physical therapist, David had to think Randy appreciated the effort. The therapist patted Scott on the shoulder. "And now I deliver you to your big, buff boyfriend, no need for threats or paperclips," he joked.

Scott stopped breathing for a second, but David just moved in, unlocking the wheelchair brakes with practiced ease before aiming them toward the exit.

Scott finally recovered his voice in the elevator. "Oh boy, I’m sorry. I don't know why Randy would say something like that.”

"Don't worry about it." David tried to figure out how to bring up the part Scott should worry about without sounding like an overbearing asshole. David wasn’t Scott’s boss or his boyfriend, and David was struggling to figure out where his boundaries were. Clearly he had backed off too much last time, but he couldn’t afford to let Scott’s habit of neglecting himself cause more problems.

"I mean, I know you aren't interested. I never gave him the impression that we were together." That sounded almost desperate, and Scott twisted around in his chair, bracing himself on the arms so he could look up at David.

"Calm down." David put a hand on Scott's shoulder. "Most of the hospital thinks we're together, and if that makes it easier for me to get information about when you're trying to hide some complication, I don't mind," David said as he raised one eyebrow. Scott at least had the decency to blush at that reference.

"You're like a pit bull. I told you it wasn't any big deal," he muttered.

"Yeah, that's what you said.”

Scott frowned. “Someone ratted me out, didn’t they?”

David snorted. The staff had figured out what David had known for years—Scott didn’t take care of himself. “The doctors think the movement disorder is a little more serious than nothing. But like I said, the rumor doesn't bother me." David tried to ignore the hopeful look on Scott's face. He tried to ignore it, and when that didn't work for more than two seconds, he tried to mentally list all the reasons he should give this a try. It would make Scott happy, it would keep Scott close, it would mean he could take Scott home. David frowned. It would mean Scott would expect to share his bed, and that's where the fantasy sort of fell apart for David.

"Scott," David sighed as the elevator appeared. He pushed Scott in, swinging the wheelchair around so Scott would be facing front.

"You do not have to explain. I don't expect—"

"Hey," David’s voice was sharper than he intended, and Scott immediately fell silent. "Scott, I'm not interested in you like that."

Scott was already nodding. "I get that. I’m so sorry," he said, sounding suspiciously like his mother with her favorite catchphrase. "Look, I'm doing really well in therapy, and as much fun as your whole overprotective thing is, I've got it from here."

"No, you don't, and I don't think I'm explaining myself well," David said. He felt Scott slipping away again, but this time David didn't want to let go. Yeah, he should. He should let Scott go and find some gay lover who wouldn't care that Scott was in a wheelchair and his left side wasn't fully functional and that he'd developed what Scott considered a small complication: intermittent stereotypic movement disorder. After seeing Scott sitting on his own left hand in an effort to prevent it from jerking out of his control, David didn't consider the complication all that small.

"Look, I don't need the pity. You weren't interested before, and you sure aren't going to be interested now," Scott snapped. The elevator doors opened, and Scott shoved off, wheeling himself forward across the smooth tile while David hurried to catch up.

"Scott!" he called, catching one handle on the wheelchair, and pulling Scott to a stop near the front doors. The van would be here soon to take Scott to the transition house where they were teaching him how to be handicapped in a world that wasn't wheelchair friendly. It might be years before Scott could walk well enough to give up the wheelchair, and with the movement disorder, a walker was out of the question. Scott chose the transitional house over David's bright and shiny new home, and David could still feel the sting of that rejection. And from the stubborn look on Scott's face, David was about to face a whole lot more rejection. David didn't know if selfishness or love was motivating him, but he wasn't giving up again.

Taking a firm hold on the wheelchair, David pushed it outside and parked it under the shade of a tall tree next to a stone bench.

"I'll tell Randy to back off," Scott said, his voice defeated.

"Scott, I don't give a shit what Randy thinks or the guys at the station or most of this hospital."

Scott glanced up with eyes filled with pain. "I wish you did," he whispered. Scott never cried anymore. David reached out, but Scott immediately wheeled himself back a foot or so, just out of easy reach. "Look, I just need some space."

"Scott, talk to me," David asked. Scott started laughing, but it was an ugly sound, full of hatred and anger and a darkness David hated hearing come from Scott. "Scott?"

"Scott… not buddy or champ, but just Scott." 

That made no sense.

Scott sighed. "If this were just homophobia, I could use my magical powers of psychology to help you discover that you’re using your anger to hide all these hidden desires. From there it'd just be one short fall into your bed. Man, I know that fantasy," Scott nodded miserably.

"Scott, I don't—"

"Yeah, I know. Total fantasy.” He held both hands up as if surrendering. “It's not that you're this homophobic jerk. No way. No, you just honestly aren't attracted to me, and right now, that's not so surprising," Scott gave another dark laugh.

"I wish I were, and there's nothing wrong with how you are now." David got up and crouched in front of Scott. It let him rest his hands on Scott's thighs, and yeah, it was a dirty rat-bastard thing for David to do, but he was willing to play dirty to keep Scott this time. He'd tried playing fair, and he didn't like how it turned out. Scott shook his head.

"You have worse vision than I do," Scott snorted.

"Scott—"

"Man, I’m too tired to do this." Scott leaned back and closed his eyes, and David could count every stress line across his face.

"Scott, I don't want to lose you," David admitted quickly. "I don't want you going to that damn transition house, I want you coming home, to my home. The place I got is wheelchair friendly, all one level. It’s a beautiful Craftsman style that’s been renovated to be open floor plan."

Scott slowly shook his head. "No way. You want to move on with your life, and you should. You should have little baby Parsons running around that home of yours. Give it a year or two and you will." Scott sounded so damn tired.

"Don't I get some say, or have you arranged my whole life for me? Maybe you’ve picked out the woman that should bear these hypothetical children." David snapped. At least that got Scott to open his eyes. David took a breath and tried to calm himself. He hated how the images grew more powerful and chaotic when he lost control. "Buddy, I want you to come home."

"Not compatible, man," Scott said sadly.

"Just because I don't want you in my bed doesn't mean I don't want you in my life."

"I think the future Mrs. Parsons might have something to say about that." Scott’s features twisted with anger and disgust.

"What is it with you and supposed baby-drive?" David demanded, anger quickly rising up to challenge the hopelessness he'd felt a second ago.

"I don’t know," Scott said softly, and that totally threw David off. Scott was supposed to get defensive, not go all indecisive so David didn't have a target to attack. He paused as he regrouped.

"I don't want to reproduce," David finally said.

Scott laughed. "You could have fooled me."

"Well, obviously I fooled myself as well because I don't get it. Why would you be so sure that I was trying to reproduce, that there will be a Mrs. Parsons to object to you living in the house? For that matter, why would you think that I would care what a Mrs. Parsons would think even if I did lose my mind and decide to marry again?"

"You dated half the station," Scott almost shouted. "Amy from the DA's office and Jessie from records and Cynthia from the ME's office, and Debra from the gym." That last one earned an especially thick layer of derision.

David threw his hands in the air. "I was trying to show you!"

"Show me what? That you could fuck half the women in Albuquerque? That I was cramping your style? That it's hard to bring the girl home when you don't know if the junior partner is going to be hanging out in his underwear on the couch?" Scott voice rose to a shout.

"I was trying to show you that I didn't mind if *you* dated," David snapped right back. "I never brought those women home."

"Because I was there!"

"Because I didn't want to! If I wanted to bring them home, I would have told you to make yourself scarce for the night."

"Only now, you can't. Now, I'm the cripple who you're feeling sorry for,” Scott shouted back, droplets of spittle escaping with each shouted word. “Of course, maybe you want to play martyr. Maybe you want to be able to show off your crippled partner who you're so good about taking care of. Not buying, Parsons."

"Listen you little shit," David snapped as three months of patience ran out in one second. "I fucking love you. And if the love I can offer you isn't enough, then fuck you. I want you home because we’re friends. Every time I step through my fucking door to find an empty house, it feels wrong. I’ve felt wrong, and I have ever since you moved out. I was trying to give you your space so you could find someone who could offer you something better than some dried up old cop who'd rather use his own hand because relationships are just too fucking complicated for me to deal with. I wanted you to be happy. And if that's some sort of crime, then just go fuck yourself, Nichols."

David stormed away. 

It was only in the truck that he realized he had just broken something so valuable that he could never replace it. But by then the van from the assisted living facility had appeared and Nichols had vanished inside. The attendant was still standing on the curb helping a second patient, an ambulatory one, into the front passenger side, but David couldn't have part two of this conversation in front of an audience. He couldn't have part two of this conversation at all. David thought he should cry at the loss of something so important in his life, but he couldn't. He could only feel numb.

September 26th

David answered his door in his bathrobe. "Lieutenant Addison?" he asked, shocked to see the lieutenant standing on the doorstep.

“I’m not here as a lieutenant, so call me Chase. That way you won’t get confused about me chewing you out as a lieutenant versus me doing it as one man confronting another.” He looked David up and down. “Are you sick or something?”

David pulled his robe tighter and tightened the ties. "I was lazing around the house. It's my day off. Do you want something?"

The lieutenant snorted."I just thought I'd check on you. I hear you got into a lover's spat with your ex-partner down at the hospital yesterday."

"Don't start," David warned as he turned his back and headed for the couch. It looked ridiculous sitting in the middle of a generally empty living room. No one else had been at the house, so David hadn’t thought much about it, but he could imagine the lieutenant judging him and finding him lacking. An oversize television and one old couch were his only furniture. He had some wobbly television trays overloaded with the detritus of fast food meals and the place smelled stuffy. He’d moved in over two months ago, but this wasn’t a home. 

Lieutenant Addison hovered near the door, his sharp gaze taking all this in. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing. Nothing is going on, and nothing ever will.”

“That’s a bit dramatic.”

David wished he had a coffee table so he could put his feet up. Since he couldn’t, he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back. “Yep, that’s me. Dramatic." David turned the mute button off. The sound of racing cars and tires against asphalt echoed in the cavernous room, drowning out the silence that David had grown to hate.

"You plan to explain that comment?"

"Nope." David wondered if he should just take out his gun and shoot his career in the foot. It would be less painful. And yet, he couldn’t care. He had no energy left to care. After eight months of going from station to hospital, station to hospital, station to hospital, he was burned out. He had nothing left to give, and now he was a dried out husk. He hadn’t been this exhausted during boot camp. 

"I swear. I've seen you act like an asshole. I get it. That gift of yours is more like a curse. So I cut you slack, but I never thought I'd see you attack the kid when he's still in a wheelchair."

"Are you planning on closing the door?" David asked as he ignored the condemnation in the lieutenant’s voice. He tried watching the race, but he couldn’t focus. The cars blurred. David almost wished someone’s thoughts would assault him, distract him from his own failures.

"No."

"Fine." David turned the race up.

"I had planned to tell you what an asshole you're being."

"I already know." David had never tried to deny it. It was a personality trait that successfully drove people away before they could drive David mad with their thoughts. Apparently it worked too well.

"I had the same conversation with Nichols."

"He already knows I'm an asshole, you don't have to tell him," David said helpfully.

"I actually had a conversation with him about how he's an asshole," Addison said casually. David looked up at his boss who was still standing near the door. Addison looked in the general direction of the unused kitchen before he turned his attention back toward David. “I don’t know how you two managed to keep a friendship going this long. You never talk and he talks without ever saying anything. You two deserve each other.” 

Anger bubbled up until it gave David heartburn. “What the hell gives you the right to go over there and call him names?" David demanded.

"He is one of my men. And when a man acts like an asshole, he has to expect someone to call him on it."

Scott might still have his police email account, but he wouldn’t be able to go into the field. Maybe he could work out of his office, but that would kill him. He’d always wanted to be part of the frontline team. He wasn’t the sort who would survive being left behind. It would kill his soul one inch at a time.

"He's having a hard enough time without you giving him shit." David had destroyed his relationship with Scott, but Scott would still need a support network of friends. The lieutenant and Scott had always respected each other. They would hole up in one of their offices and brainstorm various approaches before presenting a unified front to the detectives, so David had assumed a friendship would develop now that they weren’t subordinate and supervisor at work.

"He's having a harder time because he's so damn bullheaded," Addison said with a derisive snort. "Look, I'll be outside, but if I hear anything louder than a bump, I swear, I'll throw both of you in a cell until you make nice."

David heard the clacking of wheels over the front threshold about the same time as Addison’s words registered. Scott pushed himself over the door jamb with some difficulty, having to back up and take it at a better angle to get through, and David just watched as Scott stopped in the tile entry.

"Scott?" David asked.

"I'll leave you two to it," Addison said. His hand lingering for a second on Scott's shoulder before he walked out the door, closing it behind him.

"You love me?" Scott asked softly. David closed his eyes and gathered his emotional reserves. He wasn't prepared for this.

"I can't be your lover," David said quietly.

"I don't care about that,” Scott blurted, but then a half second later he amended that claim. “Okay, so I care a little, and I still plan to have a fantasy affair with you because fantasy is a perfectly healthy part of sexual function." Scott’s hands never stopped. He looked like he was conducting a symphony, and David might have dismissed it as part of the new movement disorder caused by the brain injury, only he remembered this Scott. This was Scott on his first day at the police academy. This was Scott when he came home with a brochure from the university, babbling about the criminal sociology degree.

This was the Scott David had fallen in love with, the one he couldn’t love right. David stood and came around the couch. “I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

Scott’s face twisted with pain. "What I hated was that you looked at those women with all this love and caring and you never looked at me like that, not like before."

David opened his mouth, but Scott pushed himself closer. "No way," he stopped David. "You had your say, and now I'm having mine. You were my family. You were home. And then you stopped looking at me with any love and I thought I had ruined the only place I've ever felt like I belong. I’m always on the outside, only with you, I somehow got this key and instead of being on the edge, I was your partner. I was here for poker night. You treated me with respect even though I’m not as physical and I talk too much." Scott stopped when a tear escaped. He took a deep breath that did nothing to stop the next several escapees from sliding down his face. "You found out how I felt, and you just cut me off."

David lurched forward, drawn to Scott, but equally terrified of getting too close. He didn’t want to hurt his friend, but he didn’t want to be put in the position of suffering the same guilt over and over. "I never cut you off. I just didn't want to give you the wrong impression.”

"I got the impression that you couldn't love me like a brother because of how I felt—that there was something wrong with me and you didn't want me around. You started dating all these women and spending all this time talking about how you didn't mind me being gay until I got the feeling that you did mind and you were just too polite to say it." Scott wiped at his face and took several breaths as he got his composure back.

"I never stopped loving you like a brother," David wanted to touch Scott, to find comfort in that contact that used to come so naturally between them, but now the gesture felt forced.

"I wasn't feeling the love," Scott confessed.

David scrubbed his face and tried to compose his thoughts. He hadn’t managed to say the right things in his whole damn life. Seeing other’s thoughts should give him some power to connect to others, but David had never been able to connect. Maybe he relied too much on his gifts when he talked to strangers, so the silence he encountered with his friends left him floundering. "Fuck. I never meant for you to feel that way. I just didn't want to give you false hope. I didn’t want you giving up some perfect partner because you were waiting for me. I didn't want to ruin your life." David stopped, determined that he wasn't going to cry. He clenched his jaw, and Scott studied him for several seconds.

"I just want you back," Scott confessed softly.

"Even if I don't want sex?"

"Do you love me?" Scott asked, his voice uncertain and every vulnerability etched across his face.

David didn't even have to think about the answer. "Yes. Even when I'm being an asshole."

Scott let out his breath in a gust, and David moved forward, not sure how to touch Scott any more. Scott used the arms of his wheelchair to push himself up, and David wrapped his arms around Scott and held him.

"I'll always love you. I just don't want you to look back and hate me because you gave up your life for me. I couldn't survive that," David confessed, his grip on his own emotions wavering as he felt Scott's body tremble. "Just make me one promise. If you meet some perfect guy, tell me you won't say no to him because of me, and promise that if that perfect guy comes along, I'll still be your family, promise me that," David begged.

"That's two promises," Scott hiccuped. "And I promise. I'll always love you, man. I just want my family back."

"You got it," David promised. He wasn't crying. He wasn't.

September 27th

Scott rolled his chair forward and back, using it like an exceptionally expensive rocking chair. He was still out of breath from dressing himself and he had a fold of fabric under his ass that was annoying him. He might not have gotten his underwear all the way up, but close enough counted in horse shoes, hand grenades, and the disabled guy putting clothes on. No naughty bits were showing, so he was putting this morning in the victory column.

He had stayed the night in David's house, and now he considered that this could be his room. The master was right off the family room, and double doors offered an easy entrance, even when Scott’s hand was spasming and he sent the chair rolling wide.

A medical trapeze hung over the bed and transfer bars took the place of a night stand on the near side. Unless David had another cripple he planned to invite over, he had set up this room for Scott. He had done that even when Scott chose to go to the rehab home, even when Scott had told him off. Even when Scott had given up on fifteen years of friendship, David was still there. The stupid trapeze was still waiting to help Scott into his wheelchair. 

The generosity made a deep grief rise up to take its place next to gratitude. The gods did love to play with mortals. King Midas had been kind to a lost satyr and to repay that kindness, Dionysus had given him his greatest wish, the ability to turn all he touched to gold. Aristotle said he died of starvation.

Scott had his greatest wish. David loved him. When David had shown him the room, his large hand had rested on Scott’s shoulder, and the last year had been erased. Time reset. They were, once again, brothers against the world.

Brothers.

That’s how David saw him.

Scott felt like garbage because he still ached for more. He mourned the loss of his dream that one day they could ride off into the sunset, husband and husband. And that fantasy was like pissing on the love David offered him.

This room was love. The hand on his shoulder was love. David’s pain when he described feeling like he wasn’t enough—that was a love so deep that it had cut into his soul. David didn’t open up to others easily, and Scott had earned the right to be close. 

And it was enough. It had to be. Because Scott couldn’t continue to hurt his best friend and hurt himself.  Aristotle had claimed that Midas starved after he had turned his kingdom into gold and killed his daughter with a single touch. 

But other myths were more merciful. They said that Midas repented and called out to Dionysus to take the curse from him. Dionysus told him to rinse his hands in the river Pactolus and the gold would be washed away. So Scott had to find a way to repent, to mourn the loss of what couldn’t be and move on. Life was not fair. But life could be good if Scott could focus on the love he had.

The grief still twined itself around his gratitude, but Scott smiled and turned his chair around. He had love waiting for him, and he was going to appreciate every minute of it.

Year Two: January 3rd 

“Need a push?” David asked.

For two seconds, Scott considered getting stubborn. “Yeah,” he said. His arms were killing him. The station was less than wheelchair friendly, and Scott struggled with the forearm crutches. The therapist said he was getting better, but better was relative. Scott was better than a quadriplegic, for example. He was grateful for what he had, but he gave himself permission to feel frustrated and exhausted too.

David pushed him up toward the door, and an employee came out to hold it open. “Welcome to Gyu. Is it just the two of you for dinner tonight?”

“Yep,” David said. “We’re celebrating Scott’s return to work.”

Scott blushed. 

“Congratulations!” the employee said, and then David pushed Scott up to the hostess stand.

“We have a reservation under Parsons.”

The hostess escorted them back to a table that had been neatly arranged so one side was in front of the fire exit, but that gave Scott enough room to get the chair settled. David sat across from him and waited until the hostess left with their drink order to lean forward. “The first employee was thinking about a family member, a boy in a wheelchair. I think that means she was really happy for you and hopes her own family member can do as well. You’re turning into a role model.”

“Your attempt at therapy is appreciated and full of shit,” Scott replied as he checked out the menu.

“Hey!”

“Hey, nothing.” Scott lowered his voice. “All you know is that whatever she was thinking, it was motivated by that kid at home. For all you know, she was thinking how sad it was that a grown man can’t even roll his own ass into a restaurant and hoping her kid brother manages to do better.” Scott glared at David, daring him to argue the point.

“I think my story is more likely.” David didn’t argue the point beyond that because he didn’t have a leg to stand on. He wasn’t a mind reader. “So, what looks good?”

Scott should have something light. He had lost weight when he’d been in the coma and recovering, but now his middle age spread was spreading faster than ever. But man did not live by healthy food alone. “I’m thinking the surf and turf.”

“Which version?”

“Steak and scallops with champagne butter sauce. If I’m going to die of a clogged artery, I am going out in style.”

David laughed. It was such an easy sound, and Scott basked in that moment of easy friendship. It hadn’t been easy getting here—getting his head around reality. But they’d lived together for more than three months now, and every day got better. “So, how was the first day?” David asked.

“Do you know the story of Icarus?”

“I’ve known you fifteen years, I think I know every myth.”

“Yeah, but you never keep the names straight.”

“True, but Icarus was the one who flew too close to the sun with his father’s wings made of wax. I assume that means you pushed too hard.” David shook his head. “I should have dragged you away at lunch and stranded you at home.”

“You can’t decide when I’ve had enough. You had a case, and I’m a grown man who knows how to use Uber. You can’t strand me anywhere.” Scott put his menu down. “I hate asking people do go out of their way for me.” More to the point, Scott suspected it wouldn’t take many requests for accomodations before the department decided he was too much trouble. Hiring a criminal sociologist to track crime patterns and do the occasional profiling was one thing. Having that same sociologist ask the department to bend over backward to accommodate a damn wheelchair was another. Scott loved that his wheelchair gave him the freedom to move when his legs could barely hold his weight. However, it was also a giant pain in his ass. Sometimes literally when he sat too long.

“You bring a lot of value to the department. Maybe we can informally talk to Addison before you put in any official request. That way we know what’s possible.”

“No accommodation would ever allow me to go out in the field again, though,” Scott said sadly. He had already known that, but sitting in his office and watching the others go out on investigations had brought that fact home in a way his heart had finally understood. He would miss riding along with the detectives and profiling scenes or talking to victims. It had been his favorite part of the job. His first love had been police work because he wanted to interact with others, not sit in an office and look at data all day.

David put his own menu to one side and sighed. “I wouldn’t take you to a scene. Things happen, and you can’t defend yourself. You can’t even move out of the way fast enough that I could defend you.” Within seconds of David putting his menu down, the waitress appeared. Scott let his gaze wander the room. If he had David’s power, what would he see in these people? Would they feel sorry for him? What would his wheelchair trigger in their memories? Scott was happy he would never know.

When the waitress left, David said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Because I’m going to leave you behind every time I go to a scene. Even if I need you to profile a scene, I’m going to send you video and pictures and neatly labeled diagrams.

Scott waved the apology away. David hadn’t caused the accident. Hell, the woman who caused it hadn’t even really caused it. Sometimes life just took a shit on a person’s head. No wonder the Greeks had invented so many gods—they were trying to make sense of a capricious world.

“You’re thinking of doing something big.” David rested his elbows on the table.

“Did you regain the ability to read me?” Scott tapped the side of his head.

“No. I just know that look. What are you thinking?”

Scott arched his back until it popped. “I don’t want to sit in an office all day, and if you take out the parts of my job when I’m working with detectives in the field, I don’t think my position warrants a full-time salary.”

David sat bolt upright. “You’re quitting?”

“I’m thinking of asking to shift the position to part time,” Scott corrected him. Scott needed to have more face time with actual people. Data and videos and crime scene diagrams didn’t do it for him, not if that was going to be his whole day.

“You’ll get stronger. You haven’t even been out of the coma for a year yet, so it will get better.”

Scott shook his head. “It’s not just the physical strain. I want to do something with people. I know my work on the data is important, but so is looking in someone’s eyes and having a connection.”

“Okay,” David said slowly, as if he were trying to find the verbal landmine.

“I applied for a part-time job at the university. I want to teach a few of the criminology courses.”

“That’s great!” David’s smile lit his whole face. 

Scott held up a hand. “I don’t have the job yet, so don’t get too excited.”

“You’ll get it.” David didn’t have an ounce of doubt in his voice. His unwavering faith practically filled the room. This was love, and Scott was damn grateful for it. Knowing that David would support him had given him the faith to fill out the application, and David’s confidence washed away any cobwebs of fear that no one would want to hire a cripple.

 

August 19th 

"Slow down there, speed racer," David complained as Scott zipped down the hall. "And aren't you supposed to be using the cane?" he yelled as Scott disappeared around the corner to his office.

"Yeah, yeah, nag, nag," Scott yelled back before he reappeared, racing back. "I'm late for class, I don't have time for the cane," he said as he braced himself on his good leg and leaned forward to grab his lunch out of the refrigerator.

"They can't exactly start class without you, Dr. Nichols." David leaned on the kitchen island and watched Hurricane Scott blow through. He hadn’t seen this sort of energy in years. Scott always did like a new challenge—why else would he have applied for the police academy seventeen years ago. He lacked the military or athletic backgrounds most of the other recruits had, but he had thrown himself into the challenges with an attitude that allowed him to get much farther than others. 

"You are an incurable optimist,” Scott said, which was the most ironic statement David had heard this month. “Haven’t you heard of the fifteen minute rule? If I don't get to class, I'm not going to have a class to teach."

"They wouldn't do that to you," David said with confidence. "We have a new case if you have any consulting hours left after Special Victims sucked up all your availability last month."

Scott stuffed books into the saddlebag that hung off the side of his chair. "I have ten or twelve hours left this month, and my students would so do that to me. Now give them a month, and they will discover that I am way too fascinating to miss. I'll have them eating out of my hand, but on the first day, they're just looking for any excuse, man. Any excuse." Scott shoved his lunch into the bag and reversed toward the door. He neatly detoured around the heavy chair that divided the dining room area from the main living room.

"Take the cane," David yelled as Scott pulled the door open.

"Mother Hen Parsons, strikes again," Scott complained, but he grabbed his cane out of the umbrella holder. David couldn’t believe they owned an umbrella holder, and a tacky one at that. But the fake elephant foot amused Scott, and it wasn’t like David cared much about decoration. Scott dropped his cane into the sleeve built into his chair for it. "I promise I'll use it at work," Scott said as he rolled out the door, using the rope tied to the knob to pull it shut behind him.

David drank his coffee and moved to the bay window where he pushed the curtains to one side so he could watch as Scott got in his van. The motor from the chair lift was moving a little slow. David would have the shop check it out. Scott started the van and pulled out, and David had a small twinge, the same as every time he listened to Scott driving off. The accident hadn't been Scott's fault. The woman who hit him had been on a cell phone, lost, calling for directions, and not paying attention on icy roads. Scott had just been there. Even so, David could admit to feeling a twinge of worry every time Scott got in a car by himself. He even suspected that Scott knew about his irrational fear. But then that's what family did, they worried about each other. David finished his coffee and headed for work.