Jubilee

As it does every day, my alarm wakes me up at six thirty. And just as reliably, it does not wake up Beckett, who is still sleeping with abandon, half his limbs hanging off the bed. I know underneath the coverlet and sheet he’s got his boxers on, but that doesn’t stop me from picturing his bare and perfectly round ass being revealed should I yank off his bed linens. Really, that brawny arm and thick, sculpted leg just hanging out are teasing me. Tempting me. Mocking me. Because after Beck had dropped off into dreamland last night, I’d lain awake thinking about what we’d done, and how under no circumstances should we do it ever again.

Not sleeping together again shouldn’t be that difficult. I’ll tell Beck no, he’ll give me that uber-charming grin that makes me want to have him against the closest sturdy surface and tease me about it. I’ll give him serious-face and tell him for realsies, no, and because he’s a decent human being, he might be hurt but he’ll drop it. If he really wants sex, it would be easy enough for him to walk out the door, make an announcement, and have dozens of people come running to take him up on the offer.

And what could I do but let him, because it’s not fair to hold him to his end of the bargain if I’m dropping mine like a hot potato.

The avoiding each other that would usually be part of my plan is going to be a little trickier. Not only because of practice and conditioning, which are places where I know we can remain utterly professional, but because of this whole sharing a suite debacle. Which reminds me that I should harass Daphne again to see if anything’s opened up. Yes, she said she would keep checking, but I think after the first few days she gave up, and since I haven’t been on her about it, she hasn’t tried again. Even if I can’t get switched out—or Beckett can’t—I can still find ways to be here not as much. Like spending time . . . anywhere but here.

Common rooms, the dining hall. I could . . . go to the salon, even though I don’t need a haircut and my stylist back home will probably tsk at me for letting someone who’s not her touch my hair. I think she would understand if I explained what kind of peril I’m in. And surely they’ve got to have bookstores here. And cafes. I could offer to do more press. Who’s going to say no to that? No one! So altogether, this is a very solid plan.

I’m feeling pretty good about it as I head to the bathroom, get myself in order to go for a morning run, but everything changes when I come back out. Beckett’s awake, sitting up in bed, his ridiculous abs looking lickable even as he’s slouched against his pillows. There’s something about him that doesn’t look quite right, but I can’t quite put a finger on it.

Until he sniffles. Sniffles.

I drop my stuff in a heap on the floor, and go right over to his bed, plopping myself down on the side. Something takes over in me and despite my promises to myself about avoiding Beck and only having physical contact with him in professional settings, I find that I’m pressing my hand to his forehead, and resting my other hand on the side of his neck.

He feels sleep-warm but not feverish, like someone who’s just climbed out from under the covers, and his bedhead confirms it. I don’t think he has a fever but that doesn’t mean he’s not sick. I search his face and his body for any signs of illness, and he just sits there, gaze trained on me while I do my poking and prodding.

“Hey, uh, Jubilee?”

“What?”

“What’re you doing?”

“You sniffled. You can’t get sick. Do you hear me? That is not okay. Not permitted. I do not allow it.”

A corner of his mouth twitches up. “You know, I don’t really think that’s how the whole sick thing works.”

“I don’t care. You’re not getting sick. Now stay there. I’m going to the dining hall to get you broth and hot lemon water and honey. There must be a drugstore around here too, right? They’d have a humidifier, and vitamin C drops, and echinacea, and zinc. I need to call Daphne and see if any of those are on the SIG no-no list.”

Mostly it’s stuff like illegal drugs and steroids, but a few people have been caught out and had their medals stripped for taking over-the-counter meds. That is not happening to us, no way.

I reach for my phone where it’s plugged in on the nightstand, but before I can unplug it and get on the phone with Daphne, Beckett snags my wrist, and brings my hand to his mouth, dropping a kiss on my knuckles.

“I’m not sick. You can stop playing Nurse Nightingale or whoever you think you are. It’s just—”

And then he sneezes. The bastard actually sneezes. Thankfully his parents taught him some manners and he does it into his elbow but that is the last straw.

“You are sick. So stop touching me, you disease vector. The only thing worse than you being sick would be both of us being sick. I’m going to get some supplies. Don’t you dare get out of bed. Unless you need to use the bathroom. Or take a shower. Actually, the steam would probably be good for your congestion. Go take a shower. Don’t turn the fan on.”

It would be really great if Beck would stop looking at me like I’m a crazy person, but my bar isn’t that high. I’ll settle for him following my directions. Which he isn’t doing, he’s still lounging there like some kind of invalid while claiming he’s not ill. You can’t have it both ways, Beckett.

I yank my hand out of his and point at the bathroom door, having half a mind to shove him out of bed like I did last night. He might see it coming this time though so it probably wouldn’t work. Although come to think of it, this is probably his fault for dragging us out to that bar. Goddammit. “Go. Now.”

He sketches a lazy salute and sits up straighter before swinging his legs out from under the covers, landing his big feet on the floor. I watch for him to sway when he stands, but he doesn’t, just lumbers over to the bathroom with his boxers clinging to his hips in that really aggravating way.

Christ. Because I didn’t have enough problems.

Beckett

Before I turn on the shower, I can hear Jubilee talking on the phone.

“Beckett isn’t coming to practice today. He’s sick so I’m making him rest. He’s getting in the shower now and I’m going out to get him a shit ton of vitamin C and some broth. Can you tell me—”

Then the door slams shut and I can’t make out her words anymore. Just that she’s still talking rapid-fire at poor Daphne.

When I do turn the shower on, I follow Jubilee’s directive and don’t turn on the fan, letting the steam fill the bathroom. I don’t know what exactly has Jubilee going so far off the deep end—I mean, she’s usually swimming pretty close to it but this is fully over the line, and she is freaking. Over nothing, because I am not getting sick.

Except then I sneeze and sniffle again, which I’m glad Jubilee’s not here for because she’d probably drag me to the SIG ER. As if they could do anything about a cold. Even I know you can’t do shit for the common cold except treat some of the symptoms and wait it out.

Jubilee was right about the shower though; the hot water feels good. It always does after a hard practice, but there’s not any reason for me to be sore now. Except if I am getting sick. Shit. That’s a piece of information I will very much be keeping to myself.

I take a leisurely shower, inhaling the steam and standing under the hot spray, and when I’m done, I pull on some sweats. Then I check the agenda Jubilee set up for us today. Maybe Daphne will be able to convince her she’s being irrational about me not practicing, but I doubt it. When Jubilee’s got a head of steam about something, you do not want to get in that girl’s way.

We’ve got some press stuff in the afternoon and evening, and maybe she’ll let me out of quarantine for that. It’s not like it’s a lot of work. Surely I can sit there and talk about stuff? I’m better at that stuff than she is, and I help humanize her. She always kind of seems like a frost queen, but I’m the guy next door, albeit one who skates really well.

About ten minutes later she bustles back in, lays enough foam coffee cups on her desk to fortify a whole team. And then she’s descending upon me, feeling my forehead again, looking me over. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Did the shower help? Do your lungs feel clearer?”

“My lungs were perfectly—” It’s a good thing I’m used to Jubilee’s death glares, and don’t take too much offense to how she’s looking at me. Or call the proper authorities, because seriously, she looks like if this cold doesn’t kill me, she’s planning to do the job herself. If she’s going to be like this no matter what I say, I may as well make things easier on myself. “Yes, the shower helped. Thank you for suggesting it.”

Ah, finally, she looks like the cat who ate the canary. Shoulders back, little smile on her face. “Good, now drink some of this.”

She shoves one of the cups in my face, and that is. . . . not coffee. “What the hell is this?”

“This one is bone broth. It’s really good for you. Drink up.”

I look at her from under my brows, doubt painted on my face, but she just puts her hands on her hips. Not winning this one either, I see. So I take a swig, and it tastes kinda like chicken noodle soup except without the chicken. Or the noodles. Or anything else. It’s . . . not the best. But I smile and heft the cup before taking another sip.

Given that Jubilee is always a body in motion, I’d think she’d move on now that she knows I’m going to do as I’m told. But she doesn’t. She stands there and watches me. Which is when something occurs to me. She’s never this nice to me, never . . . takes care of me. Not in our two years of being partners. I’m a pretty healthy guy, but I’ve definitely had a cold or two in the past two years, and never has she acted like this. Something has changed. She can deny it all she likes, but I think Jubilee might actually like me. I’ll just have to keep nudging her in that direction, because I’m pretty sure I like her too.

Jubilee

“What the fuck is this?”

It’s the afternoon after Beckett’s sick day, and after a day of resting yesterday, he was better this morning. No sniffles, no sneezing, just healthy guy who I still made take an easy practice despite both him and Daphne rolling their eyes. Whatever, they’ll both be thankful when he’s a hundred percent in a few days. But at the moment, he is up to some sort of shenanigans, and I don’t appreciate it.

“What does it look like?”

It’s normal to want to punch your partner in the face on a regular basis, right?

“It looks like—” the most adorable, fluffy, perfect, unicorn “—pajamas.”

“You’re good at this. Maybe I should start calling you Sherlock. Or Inspector Jubilee. You could have your own show on like the BBC or something.”

“I hate you.”

He gets the same smile on his face he always does when I say things like that, and it makes my hands curl into fists.

“Just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean—” Ugh, I hate the way my hands flail around. I need to get control of myself. “It’s not necessary.”

“What if I want to?” Both his eyebrows go up. Really? Is he the only person on earth who can’t raise a single eyebrow? “Not like, romantically, maybe, but you’re basically my whole life, you took care of me when I was sick, and—”

The panic strikes me quick and hard, like a punch to the chest. Knocks the wind right out of me. I want to warn him, tell him to run far and fast, because that is a terrible idea and he should never let any single person become so valuable to him. Ever. Because when you lose it all—as you undoubtedly will—it feels that way. Like your whole world has gone dark and silent. There’s no joy, there’s no color, there’s nothing. You may as well be dead. And it starts with shit like darling unicorn pajamas.

“No.” That time my snapped-out word gets him to shut his pie hole. “Get them off my bed. Now, Beck. I’m not kidding.”

He comes over and picks up the pajamas. They look ridiculous in his big hands, and I can only imagine what kind of store he had to go to to get them, and how he must have looked wandering around, probably fumbling helplessly with his choices. I don’t think Beckett picks out gifts for women very often, and why is that? Certainly he’s good-looking enough, and kind. Not to mention apparently considerate, which I kind of want to throttle him for. How dare he get me a present I actually really like? That’s just plain rude.

His jaw tightens, and I want to tell him to get the fuck out if he’s going to argue with me any more. Or maybe I should get the hell out of here, because it feels like the walls are closing in around me. In a way that gives me vertigo because I’m not sure if I should be terrified or not. In some ways, it’s almost . . . nice? I didn’t mind taking care of Beckett yesterday, and aside from being worried that he was going to get worse and cost us a medal or that he’d contracted some new flu that had hopped from, I don’t know, elk or mountain goats or something and he was going to deteriorate and die on me. So far so good, though, and it had even felt kind of cozy? Domestic? Caring for someone the way Stephen and I had cared for each other. Which is precisely why the pajamas are not okay. Too many echoes are rippling through my head and I’m going to get lost at sea and drown.

I’m about to grab my jacket and head for the door when there’s a noise. A sound like someone’s just tossed something on a bed. My vision goes black, and fiery red starts to creep in from the margins, because what the fuck did I just tell him?

I turn on my heel, oh-so-slowly, and there Beckett is, standing next to my bed with his arms folded across his chest. The damn pajamas are back on my bed.

“Beckett Don—”

He cuts me off with a slash of a finger through the air. “No.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Oh yes, I am spoiling for a fight now.

“I said no. I got you these because you did something nice for me and I wanted to do something nice for you. Also so that I’d have something to strangle you with in case you didn’t stop hovering over me and making me drink cup after goddamn cup of that disgusting bone broth. The place I got them from doesn’t take returns, and they were kind of expensive for pajamas with fucking unicorns on them—”

Whoa. Beckett hardly ever raises his voice. Like, ever. I’m trying to think of the last time I heard him yell if it wasn’t a happy exclamation or to be heard over a crowd. He’s not even really yelling now, more like frustration is nudging the volume dial that he’s trying to keep turned down to his normal level of speech. Also, his cheeks are getting kind of red.

“—And they sure as hell aren’t going to fit me, so no. I’m not taking them back. They’re yours. You can do what you want with them; burn them, throw them away once you’ve hit the airport, use them as dust rags or donate them to charity or what the fuck ever. But all you really had to do was say thank you and leave it at that.”

That is entirely fair. And if my good Southern girl of a momma were here, she’d hiss the same thing in my ear. No matter how hideous the gift, you always smile, and say thank you. How backwards is my relationship with Beckett that I’ve forgotten the most basic of manners that were drilled into me as a kid?

As hard as it is because I don’t hate them, I like them very much, and that makes me feel as though I’ve got bugs crawling all over me, that’s not Beckett’s fault. It’s not exactly mine, either, but the way I act because of it is.

I take a deep breath and stand tall before giving him a decisive nod. “You’re right. I was rude, and I’m sorry. That was very thoughtful of you and I appreciate it.”

And then for a change, I listen to that tiny voice inside that’s been yelling at me for weeks, telling me to just fucking let him make me feel good, make me happy. It’s a stupid voice, but is giving in this one time really going to kill me?

So with Beckett watching me, I unwrap the packaging, shake out the stiff-from-the-manufacturers pajamas, and put them in my laundry pile. I’ll wash them before I wear them, because I have standards, but I hope he gets the significance of what I’ve just done.

“Okay,” he mutters, and the color is slowly fading from his cheeks. He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck and mutters something under his breath I can’t hear. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

That one’s easy-peasy. “Apology accepted. We should start heading over to the dining hall so we won’t be late to meet Daphne.”

I have to resist the temptation to throw in a load of wash on our way out of the building.