CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HE'D SET his alarm for the standard work time since, in theory, they were going to work. It still hurt when it went off. Arthur fumbled for his phone, cursing the swipe screen that never seemed to want to register first thing in the morning. Once the beeping stopped, he rolled over to look at Martin, who was already staring at him.
"How much do you hurt?" he asked first.
"Not as much as yesterday." His voice was rough.
"That's not saying much."
"No."
"Still need to go to the office?"
"Yes."
Arthur sighed, expecting the answer but hoping for different.
"Okay. I grabbed one of your suits from your apartment, but there's no way you're getting into it unless you want to cut off the sleeves and the legs. Could be an interesting fashion statement..."
Martin made a face at him.
"I did a bit of shopping yesterday. I got you some loose sweats and t-shirts, some shorts if you really want to freak people out. I think you should freak people out."
This time Martin smiled a little.
THE SHORTS and t-shirt were decided on, accessorized with a blue sling, less for freak-out value and more for ease of dressing and undressing. It was still a shocking look, bruises, bandages, a bloodshot eye and skinny wrists. Security did a triple take as Martin scanned his ID card with Arthur right behind. The whispers ran ahead of them with people glancing out of their cubicles to see the spectacle. The long missing alien and his heartbroken boyfriend. There were two men in dark suits waiting in Martin's cubicle. They dismissed Arthur with a wave, but he didn't move. Instead he found his hand balling into a fist wanting to punch whoever was responsible for sending someone obviously not a field agent into a four-month hell.
He gently touched Arthur's shoulder. "I just need to take a few meetings. I'll meet you for lunch."
Arthur nodded. "Okay." It wasn't okay. Not even remotely okay. But this was the Agency and things were what they were. He took a bottle of antibiotics from his pocket and pressed it into Martin's hand, their fingers brushing. "Two at ten with lots of water."
"Thank you."
At his desk, he found dozens of emails waiting, the typical mess when you take a couple of sick days. He heard Martin and the dark suited men walk slowly down the hall. Arthur gritted his teeth and got to work.
MARTIN WAS waiting for him in the lunch room. It was almost as if he'd never been gone. Almost. People glanced at him then quickly looked away. Martin's eyes were closed and he was rubbing his head. It was more reaction and emotion than he'd expressed in this room, ever.
"Are you okay?" Arthur asked as he sat down. "I should have given you the painkillers before you left."
Martin shook his head. "Just a headache. A lot of reading in a short space of time."
"You're not supposed to read with a concussion."
"I am aware."
Arthur unpacked their lunch. Peanut butter and jam sandwich for Martin with a fruit smoothie. Fat, protein, vitamins. He ate slowly, with small twitches of pain around his eyes when he moved too fast. Arthur wanted to pick him up and take him home. A half day work was surely enough for them both.
"I have more meetings," he volunteered "But then I have two weeks off for my head to heal."
"Good."
"They're going to be very boring weeks."
"I'll read to you. I'll even do the voices."
Martin chuckled and every head in the room turn their way.
ARTHUR PUSHED open the door to Martin's apartment. "I dusted, brought in your mail, cleaned out the fridge so there's nothing weird growing in it."
"Thank you."
"I'll go stick this in the fridge." He lifted the bags of groceries they'd picked up on the way back. He would have preferred to go back to his place, but Martin wanted to get back to his own apartment. He understood. When he stepped out of the kitchen, he expected to find Martin sitting at the single seat table but it was empty.
"Martin?" He peeked into the living room. Martin was seated on the floor against the wall across from the painting. Arthur said nothing more, just took a seat on the floor beside him. The picture was beautiful in its way, once he looked close. The Lautrec cancan girls had been mass produced for so long, it was easy to overlook them, but there was a flow to the dress that contrasted with the sharp lines of the dancer's legs.
"You said your great grandmother?" He had a hard time picturing Martin with any direct family, but somehow the idea of a cancan dancer in a haze of smoke and perfume fit.
Martin shook his head. "The last individual directly responsible for my care was a woman of means and an eye for beauty. She loved art. This was her favorite as she believed it to be one of her great grandmothers."
"She gave it to you?"
"When she passed, her estranged husband returned to the house to collect the art. And throw me out. He knew nothing about it, only that it was valuable. This was laying on the floor, sticking out from between a Monet sketch and an early Picasso. I tucked it under my arm and walked out the front door."
"Not afraid he's ever going to come looking for it."
"He was recently executed for the particularly brutal and sadistic murder of his estranged wife and her lover."
Arthur didn't respond. He had a feeling that if he looked up executions from the last year he would find one that would line up with the day Martin spent staring at a bottle of gin, not drinking it. It would also be the key to everything else. With his access, he could look up the victim. Martin would almost certainly be mentioned somewhere in the investigation and from there, back tracking through school records, family services maybe, whatever might have his name on it. Martin had to know he just told Arthur how to find everything.
"Martin." Martin turned and looked at him. He put a hand over his own heart. "This is yours." He placed his fingers to his forehead. "So is this. You can have the rest if you're ever interested, but if not, that's okay too." He reached out and gently touched Martin's chest. "This is more important."
Martin placed his hand over Arthur's, pressing it to his chest. He could feel the pounding of his heart. "Thank you." His voice was a rough whisper.
Arthur turned his hand around and laced their fingers together. He could feel his own heart rushing in his chest as Martin's fingers entwined with his. Better than a fumbled kiss or faked affection. It was strong and true. And it was theirs.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ada Maria Soto is a Mexican/American expat living in the South Pacific. She's a veteran of the theatre and film business as well as all the lousy jobs that come with two liberal arts degrees. A psychologist once told her she has a fantasy prone personality, but since she's trying to be a writer that's not a bad thing. She is a sports fan dedicated to the Oakland A's, San Jose Sharks, Auckland Blues, USA Eagles, New Zealand All Blacks, and New Zealand Black Caps.
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Copyright © 2017 by Ada Maria Soto
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any more or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Published by Ada Maria Soto
Auckland, New Zealand.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.