Buck let him get away with hiding for about ten more days after he was released from the hospital. Then the hammer came down. Which would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been directed at Miguel. He was lying on the couch flipping through channels, trying to decide what he should spend the day dozing to, when Buck interrupted him.

“All right. I’ve had enough,” Buck announced.

Rolling his head so he could see Buck over the arm of the couch, Miguel gave him a “whatever” look. He was standing in the kitchen doorway drying his hands, looking, as he always did, Thor-like. Did Thor do dishes? Why was the domestic life of superheroes never explored? They had to eat, right? And therefore do dishes?

“Miguel.”

“What? Oh, had enough of what?”

“You, lying there all day watching Lifetime TV shows, cook-offs and beauty pageants and whatever else. You, not eating. You, being quiet.”

Miguel was sleeping on Joey and Buck’s couch, because his mattress was still at his apartment and he had no intention of going back there. Ever. Knowing that Justin had been inside it and spread his evil made it impossible for Miguel to think about living there. Maybe it was giving a dead man power over him, maybe not. Miguel didn’t care; he wasn’t going back.

Dead. Justin was dead. The man had made his life a living hell for almost a decade, and now he was dead. On the one hand, that brought an overwhelming sense of relief, freedom. Choices he’d never felt he could consider were now open to him. On the other hand, it felt weird. Justin and the mere thought of Justin had ruled his life for so long that Miguel felt like he didn’t know what to do. He was free but also felt lost. And he didn’t want to have this conversation with his best friend.

“Daaaad.” Miguel struggled to a sitting position.

“Don’t try being funny with me. I’m serious. Get your butt off the couch. You’re coming into the shop with me today.” Buck moved closer to the couch, looming over Miguel, hands on his hips.

“Oh goody, it’s Take Miguel to Work day. All the other boys and girls will be jealous. Whatever shall I wear?”

Buck growled. The sound came from deep inside his chest. Miguel felt his own eyes widen, realizing too late he’d pushed his friend further than he meant.

“Okay.” He raised both hands in surrender. His right hand anyway; the left he kind of wiggled, but the thought was there. “But I’ll need help getting dressed.”

Buck sighed dramatically and stomped out to his garage where the washer and dryer lived. “Please tell me you’re wearing underwear these days,” he muttered not under his breath at all.

“Sorry, they’re hard to put on with one hand,” Miguel yelled after him.

Buck returned to the living room, a pair of Miguel’s sweats in one hand and a T-shirt in the other. “Coveralls aren’t going to work. I’ll cut the sleeve off this T-shirt, and we’ll be able to get it over your cast. Put the sweats on; I’ll be right back.”

Miguel heard the sound of kitchen drawers opening, and then scissors. Fine. Doing the best he could with one hand, he pulled off the sleep pants he’d been wearing since he got home from the hospital and tugged on the grey sweatpants as best he could.

“Are you decent?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Buck got the T-shirt over his head and around the unwieldy cast. Then he refitted the sling around Miguel’s neck and under his left arm.

“There. Sit back down, and I’ll put your shoes on.” The list of things a person had difficulty doing with one hand was longer than Miguel had considered before his injury.

“It’s lucky we only need one hand to jerk off. Can you imagine if we needed two?”

Buck finished tying the laces of Miguel’s low-top Converse. As he stood back up, he slapped Miguel’s calf with finality. “I knew this was a good idea. That’s the first sex joke you’ve made since you got home.”

It was? “It was?”

“Yep. No kidding, buddy, Joey and I have both been worried.”

 

Kevin and Dom greeted him like he’d returned from the battlefield, Kevin racing over to Buck’s car to give him a huge hug before Miguel made it to the front door.

It was nice, if disturbingly surreal after everything, to spend a day hanging around at the shop. Miguel really couldn’t do anything, but he joked with the brothers and harassed Buck about his honeymoon. No one mentioned Justin or the kidnapping, and for that he was thankful. It was sweet that the guys were trying to make things seem normal.

A few hours in, Miguel was beginning to feel physically and emotionally tired. The brothers were careful not to ask him about the abduction, but Miguel could feel their questions hovering in the air. His arm began to throb with a dull ache, and he was having trouble coming up with witty remarks. He wanted to be huddled back on the couch at Buck’s, watching reruns. He wanted to quit thinking about Nate Richardson and whether Nate would ever forgive him for nearly getting Nate killed. He kept circling back to how they’d stopped to fix Nate’s tire and he hadn’t said anything about it being deliberately slashed. Maybe if he’d said something, Nate would have taken what appeared to be random events more seriously and not tried to come racing to Miguel’s rescue.

Angel had come to visit Miguel—and thank him—while he was still in the hospital. Miguel was at a loss as to why the kid would thank him for nearly getting them both killed. Angel had been the one to fill Miguel in on the extent of Nate’s injuries. How he’d shot Justin and then collapsed on the rooftop deck, unmoving and unresponsive. Miguel kept wanting to tell the kid he was thanking the wrong guy, but Angel wouldn’t listen, insisting that Miguel had given him hope. That if it hadn’t been for Miguel, Angel would’ve given up altogether.

Miguel was hiding in the office pretending to look at invoices but really contemplating asking for a ride home when he heard Buck talking to someone. Whoever it was, Miguel hoped they didn’t come into the office. He didn’t think he could make small talk with anyone but his group of friends.

The truth was, the good people didn’t stay. Somewhere along the way he’d been cursed, born under a bad sign—whatever it was. Sure, Justin had wanted to keep him in a creepy stalker way, but keeping and staying were two very different things. He still couldn’t believe that Buck had stuck by him all these years. He often wondered what Buck had seen that day when Miguel showed up at the shop very much at the end of his rope.

What about Nate? a defiant voice whispered, a voice that had become more insistent over the past few days. After the hospital and questioning by the police (and the Feds because of Nate’s involvement), Miguel had wanted to crawl under a rock and hide from the world. Buck had let him, understanding that the real world and Miguel were taking a break from each other. So what if he had watched all seven-plus seasons of the Great British Bake Off?

He spun slowly in the office chair behind Buck’s enormous metal desk. Buck’s father had picked it up at an auction, and Miguel thought a person could probably survive a nuclear blast if they hid under it.

Nate had come for him. Nate had found Miguel and Angel at the house on Charter. Nate had saved his life, and Miguel didn’t know if he was worth the trouble. Nate had almost died in the process; Joey had whispered that he’d had a concussion, among other things, from being hit by the shovel. If Nate had waited for backup, that possibly could have been avoided; of course, if Nate had waited, both Miguel and Angel could be dead.

The chair spun again, and Miguel automatically kept it moving. It turned so he was facing the door, and Nate was there. Miguel blinked. Nate still stood in the doorway—not a figment of his imagination. He stopped the chair with a jolt.

“What are you doing here?” Miguel shut one eye, opened it again. “You are here, right?”

Nate chuckled. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He looked horrible. There were healing scrapes and cuts on his face and neck from the fight with Justin. A fading, yellowed bruise along his left cheekbone. His right arm was in a cast and bound tightly against his chest. He looked amazing and real and alive. Miguel felt his breath hitch in his throat.

“I brought you something.” Miguel saw Nate had a small bag dangling from his good hand. He hadn’t noticed it, he’d been so focused on the reality of Nate. “Here.” Nate approached the desk with care, as if Miguel was going to bolt. Miguel supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the bounds of possibility.

“You brought me something?” He looked at the bag, registering the name of a wireless company.

Nate plopped the bag on the desk. “A cell phone. I’m tired of not being able to talk to you. That is,” he said, uncharacteristically shy, “if you still want to talk to me. I added you to my plan, but it’s easy enough to change that so you have your own.”

All the available oxygen was sucked out of Miguel’s lungs and then the office. He couldn’t breathe.

“First, though, I want to apologize for nearly getting you killed.” Nate shuffled forward and perched on the edge of the desk. “I have been reminded that I have a bad habit of rushing in, ah, without fully evaluating the situation.”

Miguel inhaled deeply, filling his lungs, his rebuttal ready.

Nate nodded and held up his hand, stopping Miguel from speaking. “I’m not done. I’m pretty sure you are about to apologize and tell me this was all your fault. That somehow it was you who made Justin Oakes act as he did. Now…” Nate leaned closer, and Miguel could smell soap and something undefinable that was Nate-specific. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “We can do this the hard way, or the easy way—one of my father’s favorite sayings. I’m good with either, but the outcome will be the same.”

“Yeah?” The word came out a whisper; Miguel’s throat was bone dry.

“Yep.” Nate nodded matter-of-factly. “The outcome will be you not blaming yourself. You coming to my house so we can talk about it. I’m anticipating it may take time to convince you that I’m really here for you.”

A slightly evil chuckle came from the direction of the shop. Miguel dragged his gaze from Nate to see Buck leaning on the doorframe, shamelessly eavesdropping.

“I see you’ve discovered Miguel’s Achilles’ heel.” Miguel thought Buck was joking, but the look on his friend’s face said he wasn’t. Straightening up, Buck came all the way into the office, shutting the door behind himself.

Miguel didn’t know what to say as his friend paced a circle around the office, hands in the pockets of his coveralls. Nate watched him warily and with, Miguel thought, curiosity?

“I don’t want to interfere.” Miguel snorted and rolled his eyes. “But since Miguel sticks his nose in everybody’s business, I figure it’s my turn.”

Buck had Nate’s complete attention.

“I’ve always thought life would be much easier if people came with a manual. But they don’t. We’re supposed take our cues from our families and the people around us. That is most people’s manual. Miguel… wrote his own. For the most part, he’s done really well creating himself. Family is what we make it. Joey and Miguel are my true family. Miguel here,” Buck patted him solidly on the shoulder, “he needs family the most. Family grounds him—tethers him—but also, I think, gives him the freedom to fly a little. Stupid metaphor, I know. He’s got the biggest heart of anyone around; I think that’s how he fell into that bastard’s orbit.”

“What you’re telling me is, Miguel needs an anchor?”

Buck nodded. “Yep. That sounds about right.”

“I can do that.”