Crossing Borders (42 page)

Michael stared at him for a second, then exploded completely without warning, without even touching himself, adding his own jets of cum to the air, which landed all over Tristan's face and chest.

Tristan raised his hand and raked it through his hair, smoothing it down and catching bits of cum on his fingers and licking it off.

Michael slumped back onto his pillows, panting for breath. He lay there a long time, trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. Finally, he began to make a noise low in his throat that sounded as much like sobbing as it did laughter. He held a pillow tightly against his abdominal muscles and groaned.

“
Shit
, Tristan,” he said. “Nothing's going to kill me but you.”

Tristan went to sleep slightly subdued after his performance. He had retrieved a warm washcloth from the bathroom and cleaned up as much as he could and tried to keep Michael from laughing, which hurt him. He'd given Michael his pain medication, making careful notations on a chart he'd made on the computer, and settled him back to sleep on the couch with a kiss.

Tristan was a little concerned by how much he liked jerking off for Michael like that. He'd really,
really
enjoyed that. He had discovered a kink in his own personality, and if it didn't correspond to anything in Michael's, he was in big trouble. Because that? That was damned hot, and he was ready to do it again, and again, and again.

The sun was fully up on Christmas morning when they finally opened their eyes, and Tristan got up and put away the futon. He made Michael's breakfast and sat him up with the paper, then went to take a shower. In the steamy bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror in a totally different way. He explored himself from different angles, pulled his hair up, bent over, and checked out his own ass. No doubt about it, he was an exhibitionist. Tristan studied the tattoo he'd gotten from Meghan when Michael was still in intensive care. He'd kept quiet about it, partly because he thought it would be a fun surprise and partly because it was almost sacred to him. He'd wanted to brand himself Michael's property, and if something had happened and Michael hadn't made it, he'd wanted a permanent reminder of his lover on his skin.

After his shower, Tristan drew on a pair of low-slung jeans and a ribbed-knit shirt that didn't quite meet them, smiling to himself when he saw that his tattoo could be seen quite clearly between the two. He came out to the living room just in time to see Emma coming up the porch steps with Ron.

“Merry Christmas,” said Tristan, opening the door. “Michael's just finishing his breakfast.”

“Hey, baby,” said Emma, kissing Michael on the temple. “Did you sleep well?”

Michael looked at Tristan, who was trying to look innocent. “I was up a little in the middle of the night, but Tristan got me my meds, and I slept after that.” He glanced Tristan's way and found him turning a dull shade of red.

There was another knock at the door, and Emma opened it to find a couple of off-duty cops on the porch, along with their wives. Michael, who was watching Tristan idly, saw him exchange an odd, fearful look with Ron and leave through the dining room, effectively disappearing before their guests could come in. Throughout the morning, Tristan's odd behavior continued. He came out and visited with Emma, Ron, and his own family when they arrived and yet made himself scarce when friends from the department came by. By the late afternoon on Christmas Day, Michael saw the pattern clearly.

“I'm tired,” he announced, and it was true. Even though he'd done nothing all day, he was exhausted. “Maybe you guys should put up the sign, and Tristan and I can get a much-needed nap.”

Emma got to her feet, pulling Ron with her. To Tristan's family, she said, “Okay, guys, party's moving to my place, and we'll eat there. Then we'll see if Michael and Tristan feel up to opening some presents later.”

“Tristan,” said Julia. “Call next door if you need anything, okay?”

“Sure, Mom. Michael's right. I know I'm tired, so he must be totally beat.” He smiled down at Michael, who was beginning to doze on the couch.

“Sure am,” he sighed.

When the family left, Tristan dragged out the futon again and pulled the screen away from fireplace to shovel the ashes into a can Michael kept for that purpose. He matter-of-factly handed the plastic bottle to Michael, who filled it without histrionics, and started up a nice fire, leaning over and blowing on the kindling instead of using the gas to get it started.

“Sparky?” said Michael.

“Hm, what?” said Tristan, turning around for a minute before returning to working on the fire.

“What's wrong?” asked Michael. Tristan could see he was drowsy, could tell by the way he tried to keep his eyes open that he worried.

“What do you mean?”

“Something's different. You're different.” Michael held his hand out, and Tristan took it.

“Things are different, Michael,” said Tristan.

“Yeah, but”—he squeezed Tristan's hand in his—“I'm going to be fine. The doctors said I was lucky and am going to make a full recovery.”

“Mmmhmm,” said Tristan.

“Things are good, baby. I'll be back to normal in no time, and then we can make this place just the way we want it.”

Tristan held onto his hand and listened.

“I'll have to do all the psych crap. I'll have to think about Mary.” His face folded inward like a burning ball of paper. “Oh, crap.
Mary
.” Michael turned his face and hid his tears.

Tristan said nothing, but came to him and held him gently.

“I had a dream about Mary,” said Michael. “When I was in the hospital. I was riding my Harley, and I thought you were riding behind me. I was so happy… Then I looked down and saw dead hands around my waist…skeleton hands…Mary's hands.”

“
Oh, Michael
,” said Tristan, whose own tears fell into Michael's hair.

“It's going to be okay, Tristan, you'll see…”

Michael looked at the fire, where a sudden shower of sparks caused by a shift in the wood puffed into the air like fireworks. A large chunk of ember fell from the grate onto the brick hearth.

“I'd better get that, Michael,” said Tristan, letting him go to lean over and grab a shovel. “At my house this sets off the smoke detectors.” He reached over and scooped up the smoking wood, tossing it back into the fire.

“Hey,” said Michael, suddenly. “Come here, baby.” He waved him over. When Tristan got there, Michael took his hips and turned him around, running his hand over Tristan's tattoo.

“What the hell? That's exactly like mine,” he said. “When did you get this?”

“When you were in intensive care that first day. Meghan did it.” He let Michael run his fingers over the swirls. The hand holding his hip tightened. “Sparky! That's my…”

“Badge number, I know,” said Tristan. He felt Michael's lips on the small of his back.

“Thank you,” said Michael. “How did I miss this last night?”

“I think you had your eyes on…other things. It's not much of a Christmas present,” Tristan sighed, as Michael rubbed little circles into his tattooed skin.

“It's the best. It means you belong to me, doesn't it?”

“Yes.” Tristan still wasn't sure what he meant by that.

“It's the best,” Michael repeated. He settled himself on the couch, lying down, and sighed. “I wish I could sleep on the futon with you, Sparky. I miss your skin.”

“Miss you too.” Tristan slipped down to lie before the fire. “Soon, love.”

“Soon,” echoed Michael, his heavy eyelids falling. He fell asleep with his hand grazing Tristan's red hair.

* * *

By the morning of New Year's Eve, Michael was so over being taken care of that he'd begun snarling like an angry badger, and nothing,
nothing
made him angrier than seeing his Sparky slink off to the kitchen or the office while his brethren in blue visited, like some hired help whose only job it was to bring out the drinks and retire till the master rang again. He thanked God every day for his ego, which did not allow him for one second to contemplate the tiniest possibility that his Sparky was ashamed of
him
. The way his boy kept making guilty eye contact with Ron made him think there was something altogether different going on.

So he bided his time and waited, wondering if Sparky would ever talk about what was bothering him. Yet at the same time, he was in pain, exhausted, and in no shape for an emotional scene. Right then there were no less than twenty men and women from the FPD in his living room. He'd seen his boy looking like a monkey with a shock collar someone was setting off at intervals, just for fun, and it had to end, now.

“Ron,” he caught his old friend's attention, motioning him over. “Pull up a chair and talk to me for a while.”

Ron looked concerned, maybe even a little afraid.

“Come on, no hard feelings, you know that, right?” Michael gave his arm a weak squeeze.

“I always made you scared, after. I hated that most of all.” Ron looked down into the beer bottle he'd been holding, swirling the last of the amber liquid around.

“Scared you didn't like me anymore. Scared I'd lost more than I wanted to lose,” said Michael quietly.

“Oh, hell, you could never lose me. Let's imagine that we never…”

“Done,” said Michael. “It didn't fit, it's over.”

“Done,” said Ron, thickly. “Still love you, buddy, like always. Real proud.” Ron turned away to hide what Michael thought might be tears.

“You like Sparky?”

“Yeah, the little turd.” Ron grinned. “What's not to like? He hasn't got a lick of fear, and he's good, you know? Deep down.”

“Then can you tell me what's up with him? Come on, I know you know what's going on. I'm a cop. I notice things.” Michael folded his arms and waited patiently.