Flaming Ninja Waffles 1/2
Sep. 3rd, 2008 12:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
randomlingThis was my entry for JuC Swap 2008.
Summary: When Justin gets into trouble in a diner parking lot, JC's there to help... but JC's the one who really needs saving.
Warnings: Boybands, RPF.
Also: A huge, huge thank you to the wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
llamabitchyo, who donated the bunny that developed into this story, held my hand constantly along the way, and provided a wonderful beta. Massive props are also due to vaudevilles, for beta, ninjetti75 for talking through various plot elements with me, ephemera_pop for convincing me on the title, and ravenbat, for telling me it didn't suck when I was worried it did. Thanks are also due to pensnest, ephemera_pop (again!) and nopseud for convincing me that my original idea didn't work the way I wanted it to.
Forhurricanemegan.
Flaming Ninja Waffles
Part 1: Ninja Stalker
Curly-Haired Kid was working the night shift again.
It wasn't really fair to call him that, because most days there was a fair dusting of stubble on his chin, and he seemed to periodically shave the hair back to half an inch or so of light brown fuzz. JC had imprinted on his first visit to the diner, though – right after he'd left the hospital, must have been four months back – when his hair was a mop of curls, roughly pulled back with a bandana, and he'd looked for all the world like he was fresh out of high school. So Curly-Haired Kid it was.
With his hair cut short, and his chin unshaven, he looked far closer to his real age, which must be twenty-five or twenty-six. JC watched him work sometimes, during the bad periods, when the coffee tasted like mud and the words wouldn't come. He knew it was his own problem: the coffee was damn good here. The waffles, too, with bacon on the side and maple syrup, Canadian style. He ate so many waffles here it was a wonder he wasn't getting fat.
Tonight had been a good night. JC had really only noticed Curly-Haired Kid because he was calling, "Closing in five," across the counter.
JC was the last customer in the place. His watch read 01:55, he was done with his coffee, he'd finally gotten to the end of that line. Time to go. He stood, dropped a ten and a handful of coins on the counter, and nodded to Curly-Haired Kid, who smiled and said, "Have a good night."
"You, too."
It was raining outside. JC shoved his notebook inside his overcoat and made for his car at speed. Once he'd gotten inside, left leg aching faintly, he pulled out his notebook again and flicked on the overhead light. There was maybe one more stanza to go and then, tweaking aside, he'd be done. He'd forget what he wanted to say by the time he'd driven twenty-five minutes home. The parking lot was almost empty: only three cars beside his.
It took him a little while to get finished, after all, because he had to scribble and strike out, scribble again, move words around, before the last line worked. When he looked up, the bar across the street was letting out, a trio of staggering men making for the blue Civic parked across from JC's Ford. Curly-Haired Kid was locking up at the diner, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
JC turned the key in the ignition. He couldn't hear over the starting groan of the engine, but he clearly saw Curly-Haired Kid stop and turn his head.
" - the fuck's your problem?" Curly was saying.
JC's headlights picked him out clearly on the other side of the lot: facing the Civic, one hand on his hip. JC glanced over to the Civic; the Civic guys were striding across in a V formation, two flunkies playing follow the leader.
"I said," the leader said, "why don't your faggot ass come over here and suck my dick?" Curly wasn't any slip of a thing – taller than JC, broad on the back and shoulders – but this guy was bigger all over, plaid button-down and scruffy jeans, rings on his fingers that looked like they were more designed for damage than decoration. Textbook redneck.
Curly sighed audibly. "I don't know," he said. "Why don't you get one of your buddies to do it?" The words sounded weary and rehearsed, but JC found he had one hand on the door catch, because he knew making a scene from picking a fight. Obviously, Curly didn't.
"Say that to my face," Redneck said, and he was right in Curly's face, staring him down. JC popped the door open half an inch.
"God, are you deaf? Get one of your buddies to do it." Curly shook his head in exasperation, and managed a half-turn away before Redneck grabbed his shoulder, spun him effortlessly and punched him in the face.
By the time Curly hit the gravel with a loud chuff of breath, JC was already out of his car and breaking into a run and, oh yeah, running still hurt. It seemed to take forever for him to get there, and in the intervening time, Curly tried to get up and Redneck kicked him in the stomach, hard. Redneck's flunkies stepped up to join the party.
The ache in JC's leg had blossomed into a sharp pain by the time he reached them, but that could wait. The nearest flunky was standing on Curly's leg, pressing down with almost all his weight. Curly yelled. JC punched the flunky in the back of the head.
The flunky staggered as he turned. He wasn't down, but at least he was off Curly's leg; JC punched him again, once in the stomach, and then kicked him in the groin. The flunky grunted in pain and dropped to his knees, clutching himself, and Redneck turned away from Curly to take JC on.
This wasn't the time to worry about giving anyone a fair fight. JC punched Redneck hard in the throat while he was still turning, and the hands that had been coming up to grab JC were suddenly occupied, clutching at his neck as he drew in a wheezing breath. JC hoped he hadn't crushed the guy's larynx; it would be awkward explaining that to the police. Or his therapist.
The third guy stepped away from Curly without any prompting at all.
"Get the fuck out of here," JC said.
There was a horrible moment when Redneck stared him down, and it occurred to him that he might be in actual danger here. Then Redneck rasped, "C'mon, fellas. They ain't worth it."
JC reserved his sigh of relief until the guys had gotten in their Civic and driven away. When they were gone, he sank down on the gravel next to Curly. His bad leg throbbed with pain.
Curly propped himself up on the flat of one hand, coughed, spat blood onto the gravel, dragged his arm across his mouth. "Thanks," he said in a rough voice. Blood was smeared around his mouth; JC could see where one of Redneck's rings had torn into Curly's lip.
"No problem," JC said. He leaned down to massage his leg, keeping an eye on Curly. Curly looked a little bit green. Considering he'd just been beaten up by three guys, that wasn't too surprising. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Justin."
"I'm JC."
Justin nodded; he was panting, JC noticed, looking at the ground, on his hands and knees now.
"Feel okay?"
"Really fucking dizzy," Justin said, and slumped to the ground.
***
"Justin. Justin, c'mon, don't pass out on me."
Justin's eyes blinked open, with effort, and he rolled his head until he was looking vaguely at JC. "Is this my car?" he said indistinctly. "'M too sleepy to drive."
"No," JC said. "It's my car. I'm taking you to the hospital."
"Don't need the hospital," Justin slurred. "Just need to sleep."
"No. Listen to me." JC leaned across to the passenger seat and turned Justin's head until their eyes met. "You hit your head, Justin, and I think you have a concussion. That means you can't go to sleep. All right?"
Justin nodded vaguely. "A'righ'."
JC let go of Justin's head, and it thumped back against the head rest. JC put the car into reverse and glanced at Justin once more before backing out of the parking lot. Justin's eyes were open, just a slit, and he was looking straight ahead, the skin around his eyes creased up with determination.
When they hit the road, JC said, "Talk to me. That'll keep you awake."
"Okay," Justin said, sounding slightly more with it. There was a long pause. "I don't know what to talk about."
"Anything. Baseball." He glanced at Justin. Justin smiled faintly.
"Basketball?"
"Sure."
"Okay," Justin said again, and fell silent. After a few seconds, JC glanced back at him, worried that he was falling asleep, but Justin was looking at JC with half-open eyes.
"How'd you do that?" Justin asked.
"Do what?"
Justin blinked slowly. "Save me and shit. You were like a ninja." Justin made a vague motion with his arms that might have been an attempt at mimicking karate chops.
"No," JC said, smiling a little. "Just training. I used to be in the Army."
"You quit?" Justin's voice was still rough, like he had a sore throat. "Why?"
JC stopped at a red light and glanced at him again. His eyes, completely open now, were very big, dark blue. "I didn't quit," he said. He tapped his left knee lightly. "I was injured, they discharged me."
"Oh." Justin was quiet again as JC put the car back into gear, and stayed quiet for the next minute. Then he suddenly said, "Can you pull over?"
JC looked at Justin again. He looked really, really queasy, lips pressed together. JC pulled to the side of the road, and Justin opened the door, leaned out of the car and threw up twice into the gutter.
There was more silence while Justin got his breath back.
"Better?" JC asked.
"Yeah."
"Good."
Justin settled back into his seat and shut the door. JC glanced at him again, making sure his eyes were open, before he pulled back onto the road and headed for the highway.
***
JC had to stop twice more on the highway for Justin to throw up, so he figured he'd been right about the concussion. When they finally got to the hospital, Justin insisted he could make it on his own, and got about three steps before he staggered and had to put out one hand to hold himself up on the hood of the car. "Fuck," Justin said.
JC put an arm around Justin's waist. "I'll help you."
Justin put his arm heavily across JC's shoulders, and JC helped him walk into the emergency room.
The ER provided the usual tedium of form-filling and waiting around. Justin spent most of the wait sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor and just breathing, while JC occasionally patted him on the back and asked if he was okay. After a while, Justin said, "You don't have to sit with me."
JC smiled slightly. "Don't want my company?"
"It's not that. I just. It's three in the morning, man, and you don't even know me. Why you doing this?"
Good question. JC decided to deflect it. "Is there someone you want me to call?" He took a stab in the dark. "Boyfriend?"
Justin smiled wryly and shook his head. Okay, less of a stab in the dark, more of an educated guess. He'd been going to the diner a long time.
"Anyone?"
"Not really."
"Then I guess I better stay. You're gonna need a ride home later."
Justin lifted his head to look at JC. His eyes seemed even bluer this close. "Thanks," he said. He stared at JC's face for a second. Then: "I mean it. Thanks."
"You're welcome."
JC patted Justin's back again, and Justin dropped his head. A couple of minutes later, Justin was called over by the doctor. JC helped him walk to the cubicle, then let him alone.
He was gone a long time. JC found a copy of yesterday's paper and a cup of very bad coffee and settled into the uncomfortable plastic chair, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. It still ached a bit after the running and the fighting and then the driving so soon after, but it wasn't so bad any more. If he'd done this a month ago, he'd have been in agony.
He was flicking past the obits when someone right beside him said, "Sir?" A woman's voice.
JC looked up. A nurse was standing over him, looking down. Hispanic-looking, late thirties maybe, dark hair tied back in a knot. "Yes?" he said.
"You're here with Mr Timberlake, is that right?"
"Who?" He blinked. "Oh, Justin? Yes."
"Could you come with me, please?"
JC went, leaving the coffee and the paper. Justin was sitting on the bed in the cubicle, and looked up when JC came in.
"What's the damage?" JC asked.
"Bruises," Justin said. "Lots and lots of bruises. And a mild concussion. Otherwise I'm okay."
JC nodded and sat on the bed next to Justin while the doctor explained how to care for a concussion. It was nothing JC didn't know: keep an eye on him while he sleeps, wake him every hour to check he can remember his name, dish out these painkillers here. The doctor put the pack of pills into JC's hand.
JC helped Justin to stand and then walk through the ER and out to the car. He still seemed dizzy and unsteady, which was pretty much par for the course. As soon as they were out of the cubicle, Justin said, "You don't have to do that stuff. Sit with me all night. I'll be fine."
"I can sit with you, or I can call someone," JC said. "I'm not gonna leave you alone."
"I don't get it," Justin said. "How come you're looking out for me?"
JC frowned. The truthful answer sounded strange. He'd been at that diner almost every day for four months now; he knew the waiters' schedules, who made the best coffee, which of the regulars were chatty, and never to order a hot chocolate when Blonde Starlet was making it. If Justin wasn't there it would be... weird.
Instead he said, "Those guys were assholes."
"True," Justin said with a little smile. "You still didn't answer my question."
There was a break in the conversation while JC helped Justin into the car, got into the driver's seat, and started her up. It wasn't until they got onto the road that Justin started to talk again. His voice sound scratchy and ponderous, a little far-away.
"It's so weird," Justin said. "You're there, like, every day I have a shift, you never talk to anyone, just drink coffee and write stuff down in that little notebook. And then I get beat up and you're just there, all, ninja guy." He looked at JC sideways, half-suspicious, but still dazed. "You're not like. Stalking me."
JC looked at him with both eyebrows raised. "No!"
"No? Okay." Seeming satisfied, Justin turned his head to look out the window. JC shook his head and smiled. Concussed people were such fun sometimes.
Justin would be so much better off once he could get some sleep.
"I'm in there most days," JC said. Justin turned to look at him again. "Not just when you're on shift."
"Oh." Justin looked a little disappointed.
JC turned onto the highway. "So where do you live?"
***
Justin's place was a ten-minute drive from the diner, a first-floor apartment in one of the grand old nineteenth-century houses by the river. JC let out a low whistle when he saw the outside of the house, but Justin smiled and shook his head. "Don't be too impressed."
Inside, Justin's apartment was tiny, one of four on the first floor. The living room was neat, but full of stuff – a battered couch that had probably once been red shoved against one wall, a TV sitting on top of an old wooden unit opposite it, a couple of bookcases standing to the right of the front door. A red plastic crate sat in one corner, and JC could see two basketballs inside.
JC checked his watch. 04:51. What with the waiting at the ER, they'd made pretty good time.
"You want a coffee or something?" Justin asked. He set his backpack on the floor and went to turn right, but JC grabbed his shoulder before he could even take a step.
"Where's the bedroom?" JC asked.
Justin turned to look at him, amused.
"Lie down before you fall down, Justin. I'll take care of the coffee."
Justin looked at him and sighed a little. He looked white with exhaustion. He'd cleaned the blood off his mouth in the car, but the skin around it was slowly reddening, just beginning to bruise. "Thanks. Help yourself to whatever. I mean, breakfast or whatever. Food in the fridge."
JC nodded. "I'm gonna check on you in a few minutes. And I'll wake you in an hour."
"I'll keep my shorts on, then," Justin said. He was already crossing the living room, rubbing the back of his head where it had hit the gravel. JC hadn't noticed before, but his hair was dark with blood; then again, head wounds always did seem to bleed like crazy.
The bedroom door opened and then shut. JC took a moment to set the alarm on his watch for an hour's time, then headed right and found that the bookcases were shielding a tiny kitchenette that was far neater and cleaner than any bachelor's kitchen had the right to be. There was no partition between the kitchenette and the living room, just a line where the threadbare brown carpet was replaced by scuffed black-and-white-check linoleum.
JC stepped through and spent a couple of minutes first hunting for the makings of coffee, then making it. When he was done, he left the coffee on the counter to cool and went into the bedroom.
Thin pre-dawn light was starting to show through flimsy brown drapes. Justin hadn't just kept on his shorts – he'd taken off his shoes, but he was still in the black slacks and green T-shirt that all the waiters at the diner wore. He was totally out of it, sprawled over a double bed that took up most of the room. This room was freakishly neat, too – laundry in a sports bag by the door, no dirty socks or underwear on the floor. There was a small pile of sports magazines on the nightstand, and the bedclothes were tousled underneath Justin, but those were the only signs that the room was really lived in at all.
JC perched on the edge of the bed to watch over Justin.
JC remembered seeing him for the first time, the first day he'd walked into the diner. It had been right after they'd finally discharged him from hospital, the day of his very first out-patient therapy session. He'd still been using the cane, back then, and after fifty minutes of Why do you think that is?, followed by hobbling to his car and the ache in his leg from driving, he had desperately needed coffee. Justin had looked so young, clean-shaven with the bandana and the boyish curls, humming along to some dumb tune on the radio as he worked.
Sleeping, he looked younger still.
JC kicked his own shoes off and stretched his bad leg along the bed to massage it; it was still aching slightly from the night's exertions. Justin rolled over but didn't wake, folding one hand under his head, his breaths coming slow and even, one after the other. Like there was no problem at all.
By the time he remembered about the coffee, it was room temperature, and he had to pour it away.
***
JC started awake suddenly to the high-pitched bleep of his watch alarm. It took him a minute to remember where he was, drowsing on an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar living room. Then he remembered, and levered himself up exhaustedly. His leg protested mildly; he'd hadn't been sleeping in a very comfortable position.
07:55.
Justin was asleep on his back this time, arms spread out across the bed. JC had spent years sharing barracks with all kinds of different guys, but he'd never seen anyone who was as mobile in his sleep as Justin. Every time he came in to check, he was folded up a different way.
An hour ago, JC had managed to persuade him to undress. He'd kept his shorts on, as promised, and JC had found him a clean but well-worn White Stripes T-shirt to wear instead of his diner uniform.
JC reached over the bed and shook Justin's shoulder gently until he stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked sleepy and groggy, but not so sick as he had a couple of hours before. The bruises around his mouth were fading in, dark red against his pale skin. There were dark circles under his eyes, too.
"Hourly wake-up call," JC said softly. "Who's President?"
Justin turned his head slowly to look at JC. "Hiii. Uh, George Dubya Bush. Asshole." Justin paused, frowning slightly. "Him, not you."
JC smiled. It hadn't been long at all, and Justin seemed to be doing much better. "How you feeling?"
"Fucking exhausted, man," Justin said. He propped himself up on his elbows. "What time is it?"
"Almost eight."
"Ugh." Justin sat up, rubbing his face.
"Just go back to sleep," JC said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
"No," Justin said. "I have to call..." JC frowned at him. "I'm supposed to be at a. I'm supposed to be working this afternoon."
"Not at the diner." It was a statement, not a question. Justin turned to look at JC, eyebrows raised, and JC shrugged. "I like knowing who's going to be there when I get in."
Justin smiled. "My ninja stalker," he said, and JC dropped his head to hide his answering grin. "I'm gonna call work and grab a shower."
Justin slid off the bed, clapping JC on the shoulder briefly as he did, and walked out of the room. JC sat there for a few seconds, grinning to himself, before getting up and following Justin through to the living room. Justin was leaning against the wall near the kitchenette with the phone to his ear, and he waved vaguely as JC emerged from the bedroom.
JC took the opportunity to piss before Justin hit the shower.
When he was done, he found Justin talking into the phone. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm really sorry man. Nah, don't worry about it, I'll be fine." He sighed into the phone. "No. Not much point, it's not like I got their plates or anything.... Uh huh. See you Saturday, dude. Bye."
Justin hung up and set the phone back on the bookcase, the one that carried CDs and sports trophies and framed photos instead of DVDs and books. He rubbed his hand over his face once and sighed again.
"You okay?"
Justin glanced up at JC. "Yeah. Gonna get that shower." He scrubbed a hand over his hair as he passed JC, and JC went for the kitchenette and more coffee. "Eat if you want," Justin called from behind him.
JC went to the fridge and thought about it, but all Justin seemed to have was eggs and bread and cereal and lots of fresh fruit. There was a smoothie-maker on the counter, which made sense of the fruit, anyway. He gave up and went for more coffee.
Justin took a long time in the shower. By the time he emerged from the bathroom, damp and wrapped in a towel, JC was finishing his coffee on the couch. When he looked up and saw Justin, he almost choked on his coffee.
"Holy shit." he said. "I didn't realize it was that bad." Justin's chest and stomach were a mess of livid-looking red bruises, far darker than the ones on his face.
Justin glanced down at himself. "It looks worse than it is."
"Must hurt like hell."
"Hey." Justin hitched the towel up slightly by one hip. "They checked me out, there's no internal bleeding or anything. I'm gonna be fine."
"Good," JC said, and meant it. This was bad enough; if Justin had been badly hurt he couldn't have forgiven himself. "I just. I wish I'd gotten to you sooner."
"You didn't have to help me at all," Justin pointed out gently. "And you maybe saved my life, you know, so I'm not so worried about being a little bruised up." JC didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded, to show he understood. Justin stood there awkwardly for a second, then said, "I appreciate it. A lot."
"It was no problem."
"C'mon," Justin said. "You must've had better things to do than stay up with me all night."
He would have gone home and slept, that was for sure. Gotten up late this morning, run a load of laundry, pottered around the apartment, hit the diner around seven or eight and stayed until closing or thereabouts. Not talked to anyone. This was... better.
He was dog-tired, and his leg still ached from kicking that idiot in the groin, and he'd give his life for a decent breakfast and six hours' sleep. For some reason, this was still better.
"Would you believe me if I said, 'not so much'?"
Justin smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said. JC smiled too. "Listen," Justin went on. "I'm gonna go back to sleep. You should get some sleep too, you've been up all night."
JC shook his head. "I'll wake you in an hour."
"And ask me who's President."
"Maybe next time I'll get you to count to ten."
Justin gave JC a thumbs-up and wandered back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. JC tipped his head back against the couch, let out a long breath, and shut his eyes.
Then he thought better of it and set the alarm on his watch.
***
Justin folded his arms. "Really," he said again. "Really really. Probably more okay to drive than you are right now. I've had more sleep."
That was true enough. Sleeping most of the day in bursts of less-than-an-hour really hadn't done anything for JC's brain or motor functions. Still, he had to get home somehow, and Justin was going to need his car.
All in all, Justin had probably had about twelve hours' sleep, and he'd woken up easily every hour to recite whatever random pieces of information JC could think of. He hadn't even bitched about it too much. It was just after seven in the evening, and Justin seemed perfectly all right now – bursting with energy, even. Like a bored little kid.
"You have a concussion, Justin," JC said. "You're probably not okay to drive."
Justin sighed. "I feel pretty much okay. Look, my head doesn't even hurt that much. And it's a ten-minute drive."
"You'll pull over if you feel dizzy?" JC said, looking at him seriously.
"Yes," Justin said. "I really don't wanna die. Look, give me your cell number, if you're worried. I'll text you when I'm home safe."
That was reassuring. And, bruising aside, he looked okay; not nearly as pale as the previous morning, steady on his feet, and sounding far more articulate than JC felt.
"Okay," JC said, relenting. "Let's go."
He gathered his shoes from Justin's bedroom, where he'd left them, and checked his coat pockets twice for wallet and keys before they headed out to his car.
Steady drizzle was falling outside, enough to make JC walk fast to the car. Justin grunted slightly as he folded himself into the passenger seat, and JC looked at him sharply. Justin just shook his head. "Bruises, man."
"Right."
Once he was in the car and driving, JC actually felt a bit more alert. He was going to have a really early night, all the same. Justin was quiet as JC drove, after his burst of energy back at the apartment, and took a deep breath as they turned into the diner's parking lot.
"Okay?" JC said.
Justin took another deep breath. "Fine," he said. "Yeah. Not so bad." He paused. "Probably good for me, coming right back."
"Yeah, it probably is. You be okay from here?"
"Uh huh." Justin reached for the door, then stopped, glancing at the diner. "Can I buy you a coffee or something? Say thanks?"
"Thanks, but I'm beat. I need to get home."
"Okay," Justin said. "Rain check?"
"Sure thing."
"And thanks again," Justin said. "For everything. Looking after me and stuff. It's a lot to do for a total stranger."
"You're not a total stranger," JC said. "I see you like four times a week."
Justin grinned. "I'm in work day after tomorrow."
"I know," said JC, grinning back.
"Right. You're my ninja stalker."
"Don't start," JC said. He couldn't help but smile.
"See you Friday," Justin said. "And thanks again." He opened the door, stepped out into the rain, and shut the door.
Justin tapped the roof of the car when the door was closed. JC knew exactly what that meant – off you go – but he still waited until Justin had gotten in his car and driven out of the parking lot safely before he took off himself. It wasn't until he was already on the highway that he realized: dammit, he never gave Justin his cell number.
Still. Ninja stalker.
He kept catching himself grinning on the drive home.
Part 2: A Break In The Routine
Thursday seemed to drag on and on and on.
Friday was a full day – physio in the morning, therapist in the afternoon. He even behaved at his therapy session, talked to the therapist about Tuesday night. The fight, the hospital, taking care of Justin. She smiled and said, "Sounds like you made a friend." Then she quizzed him about his social life.
He always got cranky when she did that. Today was no exception, but he found his bad mood was slowly dissolving as he drove from the therapist's office to the diner. By the time he was pulling up in the parking lot, he didn't really feel pissed at all. Faintly nervous, yes. Pissed, no.
No reason to be nervous.
The diner door made its familiar jangling noise when JC opened it, but this time it sounded jarring and weird. Justin was at the counter, stirring coffee, and he looked up as JC shut the door. "Hey! How you doing?"
"Good, thanks." He looked at Justin's face. He hadn't shaved, and a couple of days' stubble was pretty effective at disguising the bruising around his mouth, but JC could still see the mottled purple of his skin under golden-brown hair. "How are you feeling?"
"Better, thanks," Justin said. He smiled, but it seemed weak and reflexive, fake. He pushed the coffee across the counter towards JC. "That's how you like it, right?"
JC tasted it. It wasn't regular coffee from the machine – he'd tried that exactly twice and it was really bland – but an Americano with sugar, the same thing he almost always ordered. "That's perfect," he said, and Justin smiled for real. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Justin said.
JC smiled at him, took his coffee and settled himself in a booth by the window to write. He felt full of things to say today, but somehow couldn't seem to get to the end of a line without stumbling, and by the end of half an hour he'd filled a page and a half of his little book with crossed-out words. He'd finished his coffee, too, just cold dregs left at the bottom of his cup.
He'd set down his book and was just thinking about ordering more coffee when Justin set a plate of waffles in front of him. "Fresh cup?"
"Uh, I didn't order..."
"I know," Justin said, cutting him off. "I figured you might be hungry. They're on me, man, call it a thank you."
JC looked down at the waffles. He was hungry. "Thank you," he said, looking back up at Justin. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to," Justin said. "I even gave you extra bacon, because ninjas need their protein. But no extra syrup, because even though you were sweet to me, I'm not that flaming."
"You're not flaming," JC said automatically, and Justin laughed, a hard, sweet sound.
"I really am." He snatched up JC's mug with a smile. "I'll get you some more coffee."
JC smiled too, shook his head, and dug into his waffles as Justin went. They were good, of course. Today was a good day, despite his hectoring physio, and his patronizing therapist, and the crossed-out words in his book: he felt alive, his leg barely hurt, the food tasted good, the air felt almost electric.
He should write that down.
When Justin came back, he was trying not to get syrup on his notebook as he wrote. Justin set a mug of coffee down beside JC's plate and said, "So what are you writing?"
JC looked up at him guiltily, feeling like he'd been caught in the act. Caught in what act, he wasn't totally sure. He wasn't ashamed of the poetry. It was sort of private, though.
"I'm curious," Justin said. He glanced around and sat down opposite JC. "You write in that thing every day. What do you write? Are you, like, making notes on us to send to the government?"
Justin's grin was infectious. "Now I'm a spy?"
"Maybe you are. I guess that means you're not stalking me, huh."
Somehow, JC didn't want to stop being Justin's fake stalker just yet. He said, "Actually, it's poetry."
He wasn't quite sure what reaction he'd expected – laughter, maybe – but he wasn't at all prepared for the reaction he got. Justin grinned enormously, blinding and slightly goofy all at once, and said, "Aw, cool. Can I read something?"
"I. Um." JC blinked. He really didn't want to disappoint Justin. On the other hand, most of what he wrote was so personal, he couldn't imagine Justin getting it. "It's not really for anyone else to see," he said, and that sounded so completely lame. Justin's face fell a little.
"Oh," Justin said. "Well, that's fair enough, I guess." The door jangled, and Justin looked up. An elderly lady and three little kids were scrambling into the booth nearest the door. "I better get back to work."
"Thanks for the coffee," JC called after him. Justin waved his hand, no problem, and JC turned to watch him greet the new customers with a smile.
***
Justin, JC noticed, was chatty with all the customers, tossing out observations on the weather or the baseball game that was running with the sound off on the TV over the counter. JC was more of a track-and-field kind of guy, but every time Justin sucked in his breath or cheered at the TV, JC craned his neck to check the score. Justin was a Braves fan.
It was June, but it was raining and raining outside, and Justin kept commiserating with tourists over the bad weather for the season. Justin didn't even quit talking during the dinnertime rush, when the diner was packed with tourists and kids and irritable construction workers. Blonde Starlet and Egghead both looked harried, practically running from table to table, but Justin had a smile and a funny line and a few seconds for everyone.
JC mostly kept writing, drank his coffee slow, and didn't bother anyone.
Around ten, when the rush was over, Justin sank down in the seat opposite JC with a plate of pancakes in one hand and a can of Coke in the other. He said, "Hey," popped the Coke open, and dug for something in his pocket.
JC glanced up at him. "Hey."
"I'm on a break," Justin said by way of explanation. He produced a blister-pack of pills, pushed two into his hand, and swilled them down with a mouthful of Coke. "Mind if I eat with you?"
"Of course not."
"Cool."
Justin dug into the pancakes, and ate in silence as JC wrote. He'd started a new poem, something about how awake he felt – but it felt strange to be writing when he was this awake, somehow. He'd only started writing after he came out of the hospital, when things had so often been dull grey and numbed-out.
It felt strange to be writing in someone's presence, too, so he put the notebook firmly down. Justin glanced up at him, chewing, a curious expression on his face.
JC glanced at the pill package that was still on the table. "Your head still bad?"
"I keep getting headaches," Justin said. "It's not too bad. I checked the internet, it said I'd be okay in a few days."
JC smiled. "You probably will. But go see a doctor if you're still getting them in a week."
Justin nodded and took up another forkful of his pancakes.
"Promise me," JC said.
"Mmhuh," Justin said with his mouth full. JC stared at him until he'd swallowed, and Justin said, "Okay, I promise."
JC nodded. "Good."
"You worry about me?" Justin asked, smiling a little. It was a gentle smile, not mocking at all, more like Justin was pleased; but JC had that caught-out feeling again and had to drop his eyes. He stared into his coffee while Justin said, "You really are sweet."
JC didn't have the first clue what to say to that, so he didn't say anything at all. He could feel Justin's eyes on him for a few seconds, almost enough to make his cheeks burn. After that, though, Justin dropped his eyes and went on eating. JC sipped his coffee, trying not to look Justin's way, which was harder than it sounded. His view of the parking lot really wasn't very interesting.
After a while, Justin said, "Am I stopping you from writing?"
"No," JC lied. "I was done for a little bit."
"Okay, good." Justin took another forkful, chewed, swallowed. "Am I annoying you, sitting here?"
"Why would you be annoying me?"
"Well, you never talk to anybody," Justin pointed out. "I figured... I figured, you were so nice to me, maybe all you needed was someone to strike up a conversation. Now I'm thinking, maybe you just wanted to be left alone in the first place. I don't wanna bother you."
"You're not bothering me," JC said. That, at least, was the truth. "It's good to have someone to talk to sometimes," he went on, and felt stupid when he suddenly realized he'd just quoted his therapist, verbatim.
"That's true," Justin said. He looked at JC and smiled. "So I should talk?"
"Yeah," JC said. "Tell me what you do when you're not here."
Justin smiled. "You've been in my apartment. Guess."
JC thought back to Wednesday, dozing on Justin's battered couch, fixing coffee in that disturbingly neat kitchen and drinking it while looking at the contents of Justin's bookshelves. Not many books, but lots of pictures, some trophies, CDs, a few DVDs. "Something to do with sports," he guessed.
Justin grinned. "Good! Ten stalker points. I work for a charity called Sports First, we do a whole lot of sports stuff for disadvantaged kids."
"What's that like?"
So Justin talked. And talked and talked and talked. JC figured he must be good at his job: he was so clearly passionate about it, the coaching he did for basketball and soccer, the two competitive teams he helped with, the dance class he ran. There was a little rant on how, yes, dance was a sport, and no, not just because Justin was gay. JC smiled; he could see Justin as a dancer. He could see Justin as a lot of things.
Justin had finished his pancakes by the time he was done talking. "So," he said, "enough about me. What do you do when you're not here?" He drained his Coke and sat back in his seat. JC frowned, but it was a fair question.
"Not much," he confessed. "Physio for the leg. And I see a therapist. Apart from that... I pretty much come here and write."
"Sounds like it was bad," Justin said soberly. "Whatever happened to you."
JC was quiet a long time before he felt able to say, "Yeah." He could count on the fingers of one hand the people he'd told that: the physio, his therapist, his old CO, his mother. "Yeah, it was pretty bad."
"I'm sorry," Justin said, and it sounded like maybe he actually cared. Justin glanced out of the window, and JC had the sense that he was figuring out what to say next, how to handle this; that made JC feel a little dumb. He'd just opened himself right up to an almost-total stranger, after all.
Justin spent a few seconds staring out at the parking lot, and JC gave him the time to react. Then Justin said, "Are you getting better?"
"Yes," JC said. "Definitely." It was true. Four months ago, he hadn't believed it when the doctors and his therapist and his dad had promised him that time and distance would make a difference, but it was true. They had. Time, distance, treatment, therapy, writing.
Maybe Justin, just a little bit. He felt better today than he had in a long, long time.
"Glad to hear it," Justin said. "You know... God, this sounds really patronizing, but... If there's something I can do, will you let me know?"
"I will. Thanks." He smiled at Justin experimentally, and Justin smiled back. "And you don't sound patronizing." He didn't; he sounded concerned and sincere, which was totally different.
"Good," Justin said. Then he glanced at his watch. "Crap. I have to get back to work."
JC glanced at his own watch as Justin got up. Somehow they'd swallowed up half an hour. "Talk to you later," he said.
"You need another coffee?"
JC opened his mouth, not even able to remember if he'd finished or not, and closed it again. Justin swept up the cup along with the plate and Coke can and said, "Sure you do. I'll be right back."
JC watched him disappear into the kitchen with the crockery, swing doors flapping behind him, then grabbed his notebook and started to write furiously. He was so absorbed in it that when Justin came back with the coffee, he barely even looked up.
***
From his seat at the window, JC had a good view of Tiny's Bar across the street, a small, squat building that was lit up with blue and pink neon at night. It was the same place that Justin's drunken asshole attackers had come out of on Tuesday night, and as closing time approached, JC kept glancing over at it as drunkards staggered in and out. This wasn't the best neighbourhood to be wandering around in, alone and late at night.
By one-thirty, he was the only customer in the place, and Justin came to JC's booth with a fresh coffee for JC and a Coke for himself. "Hi. How's the writing going?"
"Good," JC said. He'd managed seven pages in three hours; if he kept this up, he was going to need a new notebook.
"Awesome. Mind if I sit?"
"Sure."
"Thanks," Justin said. He sat down, opened his Coke, and took a long drink from it. JC put his book away. "No, no, go ahead and write," Justin said, but somehow it was impossible with Justin sitting right there.
"How's the head?" JC asked instead.
"Not too bad, thanks," Justin said. He glanced out the window at Tiny's, frowned a little, and looked back at his Coke.
"Good."
Justin took another swig, swallowed, wiped at his mouth delicately. "I do stop you from writing," he said. "You never do when I'm sitting here."
That was true enough. JC took a breath and inclined his head slightly, trying to figure out how best to explain it. "It's hard when there's someone else here," he said eventually.
"I can get that," Justin said. "Want me to go?"
"No. It's probably good for me to take a break."
"Probably, yeah."
There didn't seem to be much to say after that. Justin took another sip of his Coke and JC tasted his coffee. Justin made great coffee, strong and sweet, just how JC liked it, and he smiled as he swallowed. Justin smiled back like making good coffee was a kind of triumph.
"Good?"
"Very."
"Cool." Justin sat back and held the Coke can against his chest, turning and turning it. It suddenly occurred to JC that Justin's chest and stomach must still be hurting a whole hell of a lot, and he'd been standing and sitting and moving around for almost eight hours without a word of complaint.
"Your chest sore?" he asked.
Justin looked down at himself. "Yeah," he said, and grimaced. "Man, I'm gonna be glad of a hot shower when I get home."
"Try sleeping with a heat pack. Or a hot water bottle."
Justin nodded. "I will. Thanks." He smiled. "Hey, at least I didn't break any ribs. Thanks to you."
JC shook his head. "I'm just glad I was there."
Justin looked down at the table. "Me too," he said in a small voice. "Like, really glad. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been."
There was a long silence, until JC said, "It's okay, Justin."
Justin nodded faintly, finished his Coke, and went back to work without another word.
By closing, it had stopped raining. There must have been some silent agreement between them, because 02:00 ticked over to 02:01 on JC's watch, and he sat there scribbling while Justin flicked out the lights in the kitchen, ran some admin thing on the cash register, locked the day's takings away under the counter.
Finally he switched off the TV and the lights over the counter. "Yo, I'm leaving now."
JC looked up. Justin was leaning against the counter with his arms folded, smiling. "C'mon, dude," he said.
JC got up and walked with him to the door, then hovered behind him while Justin locked the door. When he was done, he glanced once over his shoulder towards Tiny's, then looked at JC.
"I'm gonna wait here until you're in your car."
Justin pressed his lips together, holding JC's gaze for just a moment, and nodded. "Thanks."
"No problem."
Justin reached out toward JC with one hand, then let it fall back to his side. Instead, he nodded at JC, just a quick bob of his head, and JC nodded back. Justin patted JC's shoulder quickly, then ran for his car.
True to his word, JC hovered at the diner door until Justin was in his car, until he'd backed out of the lot and driven away. Then, smiling slightly to himself, he clambered into the Ford and started his own journey home.
***
By late Saturday morning, when JC woke up, it seemed like the weather was finally clearing up for the summer. He drank his first coffee of the day on his balcony, watching the light wind blow puffy white clouds around. When the coffee was done, he sat at his kitchen table and wrote about it, blue skies and summer weather and birds circling overhead.
He didn't bother with the diner that day – the first time he hadn't gone there in weeks. He went for a drive instead, taking advantage of the fact that his leg could stand to be cramped up in a car now for a couple of hours at a stretch, and spent the afternoon playing tourist at the coast. He even struck up a brief conversation with the lady who sold him ice cream. His therapist would probably have said he made another friend.
Justin spent Saturdays working at his other job, not that that had anything to do with anything.
The weather held. JC walked the beach to stretch his legs, and later ate dinner in a restaurant full of families with small children. The little girl at the next table, maybe five or six years old, had spent the day making a collection of pebbles, and she kept running across to JC to show him interesting ones. Her mother came to retrieve her with apologies several times, and each time, JC told her it was okay. It sort of was, although by the seventh identical-looking pebble he could probably have lived without it.
He drove home after dark, flipping stations on the radio until he found something he liked. Stevie Wonder finally saw him home.
Sunday, he woke up to a fairly awe-inspiring cramp in his leg: way too much driving, after all. Massaging it firmly under a hot shower helped a little, as did sitting with the leg stretched out along the couch for a while, hopping impatiently between news channels on the TV. There'd been another suicide bombing on the Gaza Strip. What a surprise.
By noon, two hours after he got up, the leg was pretty much okay. He popped a painkiller as a precaution, though, before going out to the car.
He often didn't get to the diner until early Sunday evening, which meant he didn't tend to catch Justin all weekend; Justin worked the morning shift on Sundays and was out of there by two. Back when he'd just been Curly-Haired Kid, that hadn't mattered. It mattered now, for some reason. Maybe his therapist had been right about making a friend.
Anyway, to hell with routine. He was whistling as he trotted down the stairs from his apartment.
The streets between his apartment and the highway, and the highway itself, were fine, but the road up to the diner itself was clogged with tourists. JC gritted his teeth and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, anything to keep himself from blaring the horn at people who couldn't move any more than he could. Eventually, though, he managed to pull into the packed parking lot. He even found a space.
The only open seat was a spot at the counter, so JC took it. Justin was serving a table in the back, and Bubblegum was serving behind the counter. Her hair was dyed a lurid green this week, and she'd switched back to the silver nose-stud after several weeks of experimenting with various different varieties.
After a minute, she moved toward JC. "Hi, what can I get you?"
"Americano, please. With sugar."
"Comin' up." Bubblegum turned away toward the espresso machine, popping her gum, and JC peered behind him, looking for Justin. Justin caught sight of him just as he was disappearing into the kitchen: he flashed JC a grin, waved his hand, and vanished. JC smiled to himself and took a sip of his coffee. Bubblegum's coffee was nowhere near as good as Justin's.
Justin served up an armful of desserts to the table just behind JC and made a point of clapping JC quickly on the shoulder as he went by. "How you doing?" he asked.
"Good," JC said. Justin squeezed his shoulder and moved over to the booth nearest the door, order pad in hand.
JC was so rarely around for the lunchtime rush that he'd barely even thought about it. Justin was going to be ridiculously busy right up until he was off, so JC pulled out his notebook and flipped to the back page. Slowly – so his handwriting would be legible to someone other than himself – he started to copy out one of his better poems. Something that, thinking about Tuesday night, and Friday, he thought Justin might get, after all. When he was done, he tore the page out, carefully so it wouldn't loosen the binding, folded it, and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
He didn't get any more contact from Justin until Justin was done working. Then Justin appeared beside him suddenly, backpack slung over his shoulder, saying, "Hey, ninja dude."
JC looked up. Justin was smiling. "Hey," JC said.
"I really have to run," Justin said apologetically. "Walk me to my car?"
"Sure."
As they left, Bubblegum called something across the diner that JC didn't catch. Justin flipped the bird behind him and pushed the door open with his other hand, then stood back to let JC go through first. JC waited at the door for Justin to catch up, and put his hands in his pockets as Justin fumbled in his own for car keys.
"You don't often come by on a Sunday," Justin pointed out.
"I wanted to say hi," JC said. "And, um." He reached into his inside pocket. "I don't know if you still wanted to read something that I wrote? Maybe not."
Justin turned to him, looking sort of amazed. "No, absolutely, I'd love to. If you wanna show me."
JC pulled the page out of his pocket and offered it to Justin. Justin took it, carefully, and said, "Thank you. I'll read it tonight. Are you around tomorrow?"
"I should be," JC said, knowing for sure that he would be. Possibly at the start of Justin's shift.
"Great. Well, I'll see you then." They'd reached Justin's car. Justin put the poem in his pants pocket and smiled. "I have to get to dance class," he said.
"The one you teach?"
"Yup." Justin reached out his hand and patted JC's shoulder, without hesitating this time. "See you tomorrow."
"Yeah."
Justin shrugged off his backpack as he stepped into the car. Smiling, JC stood back and waved him off, and Justin gave him a brilliant grin before driving out of the parking lot and off to his other life.
Parts 3 and 4
Summary: When Justin gets into trouble in a diner parking lot, JC's there to help... but JC's the one who really needs saving.
Warnings: Boybands, RPF.
Also: A huge, huge thank you to the wonderful
llamabitchyo, who donated the bunny that developed into this story, held my hand constantly along the way, and provided a wonderful beta. Massive props are also due to vaudevilles, for beta, ninjetti75 for talking through various plot elements with me, ephemera_pop for convincing me on the title, and ravenbat, for telling me it didn't suck when I was worried it did. Thanks are also due to pensnest, ephemera_pop (again!) and nopseud for convincing me that my original idea didn't work the way I wanted it to.For
hurricanemegan.Flaming Ninja Waffles
Part 1: Ninja Stalker
Curly-Haired Kid was working the night shift again.
It wasn't really fair to call him that, because most days there was a fair dusting of stubble on his chin, and he seemed to periodically shave the hair back to half an inch or so of light brown fuzz. JC had imprinted on his first visit to the diner, though – right after he'd left the hospital, must have been four months back – when his hair was a mop of curls, roughly pulled back with a bandana, and he'd looked for all the world like he was fresh out of high school. So Curly-Haired Kid it was.
With his hair cut short, and his chin unshaven, he looked far closer to his real age, which must be twenty-five or twenty-six. JC watched him work sometimes, during the bad periods, when the coffee tasted like mud and the words wouldn't come. He knew it was his own problem: the coffee was damn good here. The waffles, too, with bacon on the side and maple syrup, Canadian style. He ate so many waffles here it was a wonder he wasn't getting fat.
Tonight had been a good night. JC had really only noticed Curly-Haired Kid because he was calling, "Closing in five," across the counter.
JC was the last customer in the place. His watch read 01:55, he was done with his coffee, he'd finally gotten to the end of that line. Time to go. He stood, dropped a ten and a handful of coins on the counter, and nodded to Curly-Haired Kid, who smiled and said, "Have a good night."
"You, too."
It was raining outside. JC shoved his notebook inside his overcoat and made for his car at speed. Once he'd gotten inside, left leg aching faintly, he pulled out his notebook again and flicked on the overhead light. There was maybe one more stanza to go and then, tweaking aside, he'd be done. He'd forget what he wanted to say by the time he'd driven twenty-five minutes home. The parking lot was almost empty: only three cars beside his.
It took him a little while to get finished, after all, because he had to scribble and strike out, scribble again, move words around, before the last line worked. When he looked up, the bar across the street was letting out, a trio of staggering men making for the blue Civic parked across from JC's Ford. Curly-Haired Kid was locking up at the diner, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
JC turned the key in the ignition. He couldn't hear over the starting groan of the engine, but he clearly saw Curly-Haired Kid stop and turn his head.
" - the fuck's your problem?" Curly was saying.
JC's headlights picked him out clearly on the other side of the lot: facing the Civic, one hand on his hip. JC glanced over to the Civic; the Civic guys were striding across in a V formation, two flunkies playing follow the leader.
"I said," the leader said, "why don't your faggot ass come over here and suck my dick?" Curly wasn't any slip of a thing – taller than JC, broad on the back and shoulders – but this guy was bigger all over, plaid button-down and scruffy jeans, rings on his fingers that looked like they were more designed for damage than decoration. Textbook redneck.
Curly sighed audibly. "I don't know," he said. "Why don't you get one of your buddies to do it?" The words sounded weary and rehearsed, but JC found he had one hand on the door catch, because he knew making a scene from picking a fight. Obviously, Curly didn't.
"Say that to my face," Redneck said, and he was right in Curly's face, staring him down. JC popped the door open half an inch.
"God, are you deaf? Get one of your buddies to do it." Curly shook his head in exasperation, and managed a half-turn away before Redneck grabbed his shoulder, spun him effortlessly and punched him in the face.
By the time Curly hit the gravel with a loud chuff of breath, JC was already out of his car and breaking into a run and, oh yeah, running still hurt. It seemed to take forever for him to get there, and in the intervening time, Curly tried to get up and Redneck kicked him in the stomach, hard. Redneck's flunkies stepped up to join the party.
The ache in JC's leg had blossomed into a sharp pain by the time he reached them, but that could wait. The nearest flunky was standing on Curly's leg, pressing down with almost all his weight. Curly yelled. JC punched the flunky in the back of the head.
The flunky staggered as he turned. He wasn't down, but at least he was off Curly's leg; JC punched him again, once in the stomach, and then kicked him in the groin. The flunky grunted in pain and dropped to his knees, clutching himself, and Redneck turned away from Curly to take JC on.
This wasn't the time to worry about giving anyone a fair fight. JC punched Redneck hard in the throat while he was still turning, and the hands that had been coming up to grab JC were suddenly occupied, clutching at his neck as he drew in a wheezing breath. JC hoped he hadn't crushed the guy's larynx; it would be awkward explaining that to the police. Or his therapist.
The third guy stepped away from Curly without any prompting at all.
"Get the fuck out of here," JC said.
There was a horrible moment when Redneck stared him down, and it occurred to him that he might be in actual danger here. Then Redneck rasped, "C'mon, fellas. They ain't worth it."
JC reserved his sigh of relief until the guys had gotten in their Civic and driven away. When they were gone, he sank down on the gravel next to Curly. His bad leg throbbed with pain.
Curly propped himself up on the flat of one hand, coughed, spat blood onto the gravel, dragged his arm across his mouth. "Thanks," he said in a rough voice. Blood was smeared around his mouth; JC could see where one of Redneck's rings had torn into Curly's lip.
"No problem," JC said. He leaned down to massage his leg, keeping an eye on Curly. Curly looked a little bit green. Considering he'd just been beaten up by three guys, that wasn't too surprising. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Justin."
"I'm JC."
Justin nodded; he was panting, JC noticed, looking at the ground, on his hands and knees now.
"Feel okay?"
"Really fucking dizzy," Justin said, and slumped to the ground.
***
"Justin. Justin, c'mon, don't pass out on me."
Justin's eyes blinked open, with effort, and he rolled his head until he was looking vaguely at JC. "Is this my car?" he said indistinctly. "'M too sleepy to drive."
"No," JC said. "It's my car. I'm taking you to the hospital."
"Don't need the hospital," Justin slurred. "Just need to sleep."
"No. Listen to me." JC leaned across to the passenger seat and turned Justin's head until their eyes met. "You hit your head, Justin, and I think you have a concussion. That means you can't go to sleep. All right?"
Justin nodded vaguely. "A'righ'."
JC let go of Justin's head, and it thumped back against the head rest. JC put the car into reverse and glanced at Justin once more before backing out of the parking lot. Justin's eyes were open, just a slit, and he was looking straight ahead, the skin around his eyes creased up with determination.
When they hit the road, JC said, "Talk to me. That'll keep you awake."
"Okay," Justin said, sounding slightly more with it. There was a long pause. "I don't know what to talk about."
"Anything. Baseball." He glanced at Justin. Justin smiled faintly.
"Basketball?"
"Sure."
"Okay," Justin said again, and fell silent. After a few seconds, JC glanced back at him, worried that he was falling asleep, but Justin was looking at JC with half-open eyes.
"How'd you do that?" Justin asked.
"Do what?"
Justin blinked slowly. "Save me and shit. You were like a ninja." Justin made a vague motion with his arms that might have been an attempt at mimicking karate chops.
"No," JC said, smiling a little. "Just training. I used to be in the Army."
"You quit?" Justin's voice was still rough, like he had a sore throat. "Why?"
JC stopped at a red light and glanced at him again. His eyes, completely open now, were very big, dark blue. "I didn't quit," he said. He tapped his left knee lightly. "I was injured, they discharged me."
"Oh." Justin was quiet again as JC put the car back into gear, and stayed quiet for the next minute. Then he suddenly said, "Can you pull over?"
JC looked at Justin again. He looked really, really queasy, lips pressed together. JC pulled to the side of the road, and Justin opened the door, leaned out of the car and threw up twice into the gutter.
There was more silence while Justin got his breath back.
"Better?" JC asked.
"Yeah."
"Good."
Justin settled back into his seat and shut the door. JC glanced at him again, making sure his eyes were open, before he pulled back onto the road and headed for the highway.
***
JC had to stop twice more on the highway for Justin to throw up, so he figured he'd been right about the concussion. When they finally got to the hospital, Justin insisted he could make it on his own, and got about three steps before he staggered and had to put out one hand to hold himself up on the hood of the car. "Fuck," Justin said.
JC put an arm around Justin's waist. "I'll help you."
Justin put his arm heavily across JC's shoulders, and JC helped him walk into the emergency room.
The ER provided the usual tedium of form-filling and waiting around. Justin spent most of the wait sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor and just breathing, while JC occasionally patted him on the back and asked if he was okay. After a while, Justin said, "You don't have to sit with me."
JC smiled slightly. "Don't want my company?"
"It's not that. I just. It's three in the morning, man, and you don't even know me. Why you doing this?"
Good question. JC decided to deflect it. "Is there someone you want me to call?" He took a stab in the dark. "Boyfriend?"
Justin smiled wryly and shook his head. Okay, less of a stab in the dark, more of an educated guess. He'd been going to the diner a long time.
"Anyone?"
"Not really."
"Then I guess I better stay. You're gonna need a ride home later."
Justin lifted his head to look at JC. His eyes seemed even bluer this close. "Thanks," he said. He stared at JC's face for a second. Then: "I mean it. Thanks."
"You're welcome."
JC patted Justin's back again, and Justin dropped his head. A couple of minutes later, Justin was called over by the doctor. JC helped him walk to the cubicle, then let him alone.
He was gone a long time. JC found a copy of yesterday's paper and a cup of very bad coffee and settled into the uncomfortable plastic chair, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. It still ached a bit after the running and the fighting and then the driving so soon after, but it wasn't so bad any more. If he'd done this a month ago, he'd have been in agony.
He was flicking past the obits when someone right beside him said, "Sir?" A woman's voice.
JC looked up. A nurse was standing over him, looking down. Hispanic-looking, late thirties maybe, dark hair tied back in a knot. "Yes?" he said.
"You're here with Mr Timberlake, is that right?"
"Who?" He blinked. "Oh, Justin? Yes."
"Could you come with me, please?"
JC went, leaving the coffee and the paper. Justin was sitting on the bed in the cubicle, and looked up when JC came in.
"What's the damage?" JC asked.
"Bruises," Justin said. "Lots and lots of bruises. And a mild concussion. Otherwise I'm okay."
JC nodded and sat on the bed next to Justin while the doctor explained how to care for a concussion. It was nothing JC didn't know: keep an eye on him while he sleeps, wake him every hour to check he can remember his name, dish out these painkillers here. The doctor put the pack of pills into JC's hand.
JC helped Justin to stand and then walk through the ER and out to the car. He still seemed dizzy and unsteady, which was pretty much par for the course. As soon as they were out of the cubicle, Justin said, "You don't have to do that stuff. Sit with me all night. I'll be fine."
"I can sit with you, or I can call someone," JC said. "I'm not gonna leave you alone."
"I don't get it," Justin said. "How come you're looking out for me?"
JC frowned. The truthful answer sounded strange. He'd been at that diner almost every day for four months now; he knew the waiters' schedules, who made the best coffee, which of the regulars were chatty, and never to order a hot chocolate when Blonde Starlet was making it. If Justin wasn't there it would be... weird.
Instead he said, "Those guys were assholes."
"True," Justin said with a little smile. "You still didn't answer my question."
There was a break in the conversation while JC helped Justin into the car, got into the driver's seat, and started her up. It wasn't until they got onto the road that Justin started to talk again. His voice sound scratchy and ponderous, a little far-away.
"It's so weird," Justin said. "You're there, like, every day I have a shift, you never talk to anyone, just drink coffee and write stuff down in that little notebook. And then I get beat up and you're just there, all, ninja guy." He looked at JC sideways, half-suspicious, but still dazed. "You're not like. Stalking me."
JC looked at him with both eyebrows raised. "No!"
"No? Okay." Seeming satisfied, Justin turned his head to look out the window. JC shook his head and smiled. Concussed people were such fun sometimes.
Justin would be so much better off once he could get some sleep.
"I'm in there most days," JC said. Justin turned to look at him again. "Not just when you're on shift."
"Oh." Justin looked a little disappointed.
JC turned onto the highway. "So where do you live?"
***
Justin's place was a ten-minute drive from the diner, a first-floor apartment in one of the grand old nineteenth-century houses by the river. JC let out a low whistle when he saw the outside of the house, but Justin smiled and shook his head. "Don't be too impressed."
Inside, Justin's apartment was tiny, one of four on the first floor. The living room was neat, but full of stuff – a battered couch that had probably once been red shoved against one wall, a TV sitting on top of an old wooden unit opposite it, a couple of bookcases standing to the right of the front door. A red plastic crate sat in one corner, and JC could see two basketballs inside.
JC checked his watch. 04:51. What with the waiting at the ER, they'd made pretty good time.
"You want a coffee or something?" Justin asked. He set his backpack on the floor and went to turn right, but JC grabbed his shoulder before he could even take a step.
"Where's the bedroom?" JC asked.
Justin turned to look at him, amused.
"Lie down before you fall down, Justin. I'll take care of the coffee."
Justin looked at him and sighed a little. He looked white with exhaustion. He'd cleaned the blood off his mouth in the car, but the skin around it was slowly reddening, just beginning to bruise. "Thanks. Help yourself to whatever. I mean, breakfast or whatever. Food in the fridge."
JC nodded. "I'm gonna check on you in a few minutes. And I'll wake you in an hour."
"I'll keep my shorts on, then," Justin said. He was already crossing the living room, rubbing the back of his head where it had hit the gravel. JC hadn't noticed before, but his hair was dark with blood; then again, head wounds always did seem to bleed like crazy.
The bedroom door opened and then shut. JC took a moment to set the alarm on his watch for an hour's time, then headed right and found that the bookcases were shielding a tiny kitchenette that was far neater and cleaner than any bachelor's kitchen had the right to be. There was no partition between the kitchenette and the living room, just a line where the threadbare brown carpet was replaced by scuffed black-and-white-check linoleum.
JC stepped through and spent a couple of minutes first hunting for the makings of coffee, then making it. When he was done, he left the coffee on the counter to cool and went into the bedroom.
Thin pre-dawn light was starting to show through flimsy brown drapes. Justin hadn't just kept on his shorts – he'd taken off his shoes, but he was still in the black slacks and green T-shirt that all the waiters at the diner wore. He was totally out of it, sprawled over a double bed that took up most of the room. This room was freakishly neat, too – laundry in a sports bag by the door, no dirty socks or underwear on the floor. There was a small pile of sports magazines on the nightstand, and the bedclothes were tousled underneath Justin, but those were the only signs that the room was really lived in at all.
JC perched on the edge of the bed to watch over Justin.
JC remembered seeing him for the first time, the first day he'd walked into the diner. It had been right after they'd finally discharged him from hospital, the day of his very first out-patient therapy session. He'd still been using the cane, back then, and after fifty minutes of Why do you think that is?, followed by hobbling to his car and the ache in his leg from driving, he had desperately needed coffee. Justin had looked so young, clean-shaven with the bandana and the boyish curls, humming along to some dumb tune on the radio as he worked.
Sleeping, he looked younger still.
JC kicked his own shoes off and stretched his bad leg along the bed to massage it; it was still aching slightly from the night's exertions. Justin rolled over but didn't wake, folding one hand under his head, his breaths coming slow and even, one after the other. Like there was no problem at all.
By the time he remembered about the coffee, it was room temperature, and he had to pour it away.
***
JC started awake suddenly to the high-pitched bleep of his watch alarm. It took him a minute to remember where he was, drowsing on an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar living room. Then he remembered, and levered himself up exhaustedly. His leg protested mildly; he'd hadn't been sleeping in a very comfortable position.
07:55.
Justin was asleep on his back this time, arms spread out across the bed. JC had spent years sharing barracks with all kinds of different guys, but he'd never seen anyone who was as mobile in his sleep as Justin. Every time he came in to check, he was folded up a different way.
An hour ago, JC had managed to persuade him to undress. He'd kept his shorts on, as promised, and JC had found him a clean but well-worn White Stripes T-shirt to wear instead of his diner uniform.
JC reached over the bed and shook Justin's shoulder gently until he stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked sleepy and groggy, but not so sick as he had a couple of hours before. The bruises around his mouth were fading in, dark red against his pale skin. There were dark circles under his eyes, too.
"Hourly wake-up call," JC said softly. "Who's President?"
Justin turned his head slowly to look at JC. "Hiii. Uh, George Dubya Bush. Asshole." Justin paused, frowning slightly. "Him, not you."
JC smiled. It hadn't been long at all, and Justin seemed to be doing much better. "How you feeling?"
"Fucking exhausted, man," Justin said. He propped himself up on his elbows. "What time is it?"
"Almost eight."
"Ugh." Justin sat up, rubbing his face.
"Just go back to sleep," JC said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
"No," Justin said. "I have to call..." JC frowned at him. "I'm supposed to be at a. I'm supposed to be working this afternoon."
"Not at the diner." It was a statement, not a question. Justin turned to look at JC, eyebrows raised, and JC shrugged. "I like knowing who's going to be there when I get in."
Justin smiled. "My ninja stalker," he said, and JC dropped his head to hide his answering grin. "I'm gonna call work and grab a shower."
Justin slid off the bed, clapping JC on the shoulder briefly as he did, and walked out of the room. JC sat there for a few seconds, grinning to himself, before getting up and following Justin through to the living room. Justin was leaning against the wall near the kitchenette with the phone to his ear, and he waved vaguely as JC emerged from the bedroom.
JC took the opportunity to piss before Justin hit the shower.
When he was done, he found Justin talking into the phone. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm really sorry man. Nah, don't worry about it, I'll be fine." He sighed into the phone. "No. Not much point, it's not like I got their plates or anything.... Uh huh. See you Saturday, dude. Bye."
Justin hung up and set the phone back on the bookcase, the one that carried CDs and sports trophies and framed photos instead of DVDs and books. He rubbed his hand over his face once and sighed again.
"You okay?"
Justin glanced up at JC. "Yeah. Gonna get that shower." He scrubbed a hand over his hair as he passed JC, and JC went for the kitchenette and more coffee. "Eat if you want," Justin called from behind him.
JC went to the fridge and thought about it, but all Justin seemed to have was eggs and bread and cereal and lots of fresh fruit. There was a smoothie-maker on the counter, which made sense of the fruit, anyway. He gave up and went for more coffee.
Justin took a long time in the shower. By the time he emerged from the bathroom, damp and wrapped in a towel, JC was finishing his coffee on the couch. When he looked up and saw Justin, he almost choked on his coffee.
"Holy shit." he said. "I didn't realize it was that bad." Justin's chest and stomach were a mess of livid-looking red bruises, far darker than the ones on his face.
Justin glanced down at himself. "It looks worse than it is."
"Must hurt like hell."
"Hey." Justin hitched the towel up slightly by one hip. "They checked me out, there's no internal bleeding or anything. I'm gonna be fine."
"Good," JC said, and meant it. This was bad enough; if Justin had been badly hurt he couldn't have forgiven himself. "I just. I wish I'd gotten to you sooner."
"You didn't have to help me at all," Justin pointed out gently. "And you maybe saved my life, you know, so I'm not so worried about being a little bruised up." JC didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded, to show he understood. Justin stood there awkwardly for a second, then said, "I appreciate it. A lot."
"It was no problem."
"C'mon," Justin said. "You must've had better things to do than stay up with me all night."
He would have gone home and slept, that was for sure. Gotten up late this morning, run a load of laundry, pottered around the apartment, hit the diner around seven or eight and stayed until closing or thereabouts. Not talked to anyone. This was... better.
He was dog-tired, and his leg still ached from kicking that idiot in the groin, and he'd give his life for a decent breakfast and six hours' sleep. For some reason, this was still better.
"Would you believe me if I said, 'not so much'?"
Justin smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said. JC smiled too. "Listen," Justin went on. "I'm gonna go back to sleep. You should get some sleep too, you've been up all night."
JC shook his head. "I'll wake you in an hour."
"And ask me who's President."
"Maybe next time I'll get you to count to ten."
Justin gave JC a thumbs-up and wandered back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. JC tipped his head back against the couch, let out a long breath, and shut his eyes.
Then he thought better of it and set the alarm on his watch.
***
Justin folded his arms. "Really," he said again. "Really really. Probably more okay to drive than you are right now. I've had more sleep."
That was true enough. Sleeping most of the day in bursts of less-than-an-hour really hadn't done anything for JC's brain or motor functions. Still, he had to get home somehow, and Justin was going to need his car.
All in all, Justin had probably had about twelve hours' sleep, and he'd woken up easily every hour to recite whatever random pieces of information JC could think of. He hadn't even bitched about it too much. It was just after seven in the evening, and Justin seemed perfectly all right now – bursting with energy, even. Like a bored little kid.
"You have a concussion, Justin," JC said. "You're probably not okay to drive."
Justin sighed. "I feel pretty much okay. Look, my head doesn't even hurt that much. And it's a ten-minute drive."
"You'll pull over if you feel dizzy?" JC said, looking at him seriously.
"Yes," Justin said. "I really don't wanna die. Look, give me your cell number, if you're worried. I'll text you when I'm home safe."
That was reassuring. And, bruising aside, he looked okay; not nearly as pale as the previous morning, steady on his feet, and sounding far more articulate than JC felt.
"Okay," JC said, relenting. "Let's go."
He gathered his shoes from Justin's bedroom, where he'd left them, and checked his coat pockets twice for wallet and keys before they headed out to his car.
Steady drizzle was falling outside, enough to make JC walk fast to the car. Justin grunted slightly as he folded himself into the passenger seat, and JC looked at him sharply. Justin just shook his head. "Bruises, man."
"Right."
Once he was in the car and driving, JC actually felt a bit more alert. He was going to have a really early night, all the same. Justin was quiet as JC drove, after his burst of energy back at the apartment, and took a deep breath as they turned into the diner's parking lot.
"Okay?" JC said.
Justin took another deep breath. "Fine," he said. "Yeah. Not so bad." He paused. "Probably good for me, coming right back."
"Yeah, it probably is. You be okay from here?"
"Uh huh." Justin reached for the door, then stopped, glancing at the diner. "Can I buy you a coffee or something? Say thanks?"
"Thanks, but I'm beat. I need to get home."
"Okay," Justin said. "Rain check?"
"Sure thing."
"And thanks again," Justin said. "For everything. Looking after me and stuff. It's a lot to do for a total stranger."
"You're not a total stranger," JC said. "I see you like four times a week."
Justin grinned. "I'm in work day after tomorrow."
"I know," said JC, grinning back.
"Right. You're my ninja stalker."
"Don't start," JC said. He couldn't help but smile.
"See you Friday," Justin said. "And thanks again." He opened the door, stepped out into the rain, and shut the door.
Justin tapped the roof of the car when the door was closed. JC knew exactly what that meant – off you go – but he still waited until Justin had gotten in his car and driven out of the parking lot safely before he took off himself. It wasn't until he was already on the highway that he realized: dammit, he never gave Justin his cell number.
Still. Ninja stalker.
He kept catching himself grinning on the drive home.
Part 2: A Break In The Routine
Thursday seemed to drag on and on and on.
Friday was a full day – physio in the morning, therapist in the afternoon. He even behaved at his therapy session, talked to the therapist about Tuesday night. The fight, the hospital, taking care of Justin. She smiled and said, "Sounds like you made a friend." Then she quizzed him about his social life.
He always got cranky when she did that. Today was no exception, but he found his bad mood was slowly dissolving as he drove from the therapist's office to the diner. By the time he was pulling up in the parking lot, he didn't really feel pissed at all. Faintly nervous, yes. Pissed, no.
No reason to be nervous.
The diner door made its familiar jangling noise when JC opened it, but this time it sounded jarring and weird. Justin was at the counter, stirring coffee, and he looked up as JC shut the door. "Hey! How you doing?"
"Good, thanks." He looked at Justin's face. He hadn't shaved, and a couple of days' stubble was pretty effective at disguising the bruising around his mouth, but JC could still see the mottled purple of his skin under golden-brown hair. "How are you feeling?"
"Better, thanks," Justin said. He smiled, but it seemed weak and reflexive, fake. He pushed the coffee across the counter towards JC. "That's how you like it, right?"
JC tasted it. It wasn't regular coffee from the machine – he'd tried that exactly twice and it was really bland – but an Americano with sugar, the same thing he almost always ordered. "That's perfect," he said, and Justin smiled for real. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Justin said.
JC smiled at him, took his coffee and settled himself in a booth by the window to write. He felt full of things to say today, but somehow couldn't seem to get to the end of a line without stumbling, and by the end of half an hour he'd filled a page and a half of his little book with crossed-out words. He'd finished his coffee, too, just cold dregs left at the bottom of his cup.
He'd set down his book and was just thinking about ordering more coffee when Justin set a plate of waffles in front of him. "Fresh cup?"
"Uh, I didn't order..."
"I know," Justin said, cutting him off. "I figured you might be hungry. They're on me, man, call it a thank you."
JC looked down at the waffles. He was hungry. "Thank you," he said, looking back up at Justin. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to," Justin said. "I even gave you extra bacon, because ninjas need their protein. But no extra syrup, because even though you were sweet to me, I'm not that flaming."
"You're not flaming," JC said automatically, and Justin laughed, a hard, sweet sound.
"I really am." He snatched up JC's mug with a smile. "I'll get you some more coffee."
JC smiled too, shook his head, and dug into his waffles as Justin went. They were good, of course. Today was a good day, despite his hectoring physio, and his patronizing therapist, and the crossed-out words in his book: he felt alive, his leg barely hurt, the food tasted good, the air felt almost electric.
He should write that down.
When Justin came back, he was trying not to get syrup on his notebook as he wrote. Justin set a mug of coffee down beside JC's plate and said, "So what are you writing?"
JC looked up at him guiltily, feeling like he'd been caught in the act. Caught in what act, he wasn't totally sure. He wasn't ashamed of the poetry. It was sort of private, though.
"I'm curious," Justin said. He glanced around and sat down opposite JC. "You write in that thing every day. What do you write? Are you, like, making notes on us to send to the government?"
Justin's grin was infectious. "Now I'm a spy?"
"Maybe you are. I guess that means you're not stalking me, huh."
Somehow, JC didn't want to stop being Justin's fake stalker just yet. He said, "Actually, it's poetry."
He wasn't quite sure what reaction he'd expected – laughter, maybe – but he wasn't at all prepared for the reaction he got. Justin grinned enormously, blinding and slightly goofy all at once, and said, "Aw, cool. Can I read something?"
"I. Um." JC blinked. He really didn't want to disappoint Justin. On the other hand, most of what he wrote was so personal, he couldn't imagine Justin getting it. "It's not really for anyone else to see," he said, and that sounded so completely lame. Justin's face fell a little.
"Oh," Justin said. "Well, that's fair enough, I guess." The door jangled, and Justin looked up. An elderly lady and three little kids were scrambling into the booth nearest the door. "I better get back to work."
"Thanks for the coffee," JC called after him. Justin waved his hand, no problem, and JC turned to watch him greet the new customers with a smile.
***
Justin, JC noticed, was chatty with all the customers, tossing out observations on the weather or the baseball game that was running with the sound off on the TV over the counter. JC was more of a track-and-field kind of guy, but every time Justin sucked in his breath or cheered at the TV, JC craned his neck to check the score. Justin was a Braves fan.
It was June, but it was raining and raining outside, and Justin kept commiserating with tourists over the bad weather for the season. Justin didn't even quit talking during the dinnertime rush, when the diner was packed with tourists and kids and irritable construction workers. Blonde Starlet and Egghead both looked harried, practically running from table to table, but Justin had a smile and a funny line and a few seconds for everyone.
JC mostly kept writing, drank his coffee slow, and didn't bother anyone.
Around ten, when the rush was over, Justin sank down in the seat opposite JC with a plate of pancakes in one hand and a can of Coke in the other. He said, "Hey," popped the Coke open, and dug for something in his pocket.
JC glanced up at him. "Hey."
"I'm on a break," Justin said by way of explanation. He produced a blister-pack of pills, pushed two into his hand, and swilled them down with a mouthful of Coke. "Mind if I eat with you?"
"Of course not."
"Cool."
Justin dug into the pancakes, and ate in silence as JC wrote. He'd started a new poem, something about how awake he felt – but it felt strange to be writing when he was this awake, somehow. He'd only started writing after he came out of the hospital, when things had so often been dull grey and numbed-out.
It felt strange to be writing in someone's presence, too, so he put the notebook firmly down. Justin glanced up at him, chewing, a curious expression on his face.
JC glanced at the pill package that was still on the table. "Your head still bad?"
"I keep getting headaches," Justin said. "It's not too bad. I checked the internet, it said I'd be okay in a few days."
JC smiled. "You probably will. But go see a doctor if you're still getting them in a week."
Justin nodded and took up another forkful of his pancakes.
"Promise me," JC said.
"Mmhuh," Justin said with his mouth full. JC stared at him until he'd swallowed, and Justin said, "Okay, I promise."
JC nodded. "Good."
"You worry about me?" Justin asked, smiling a little. It was a gentle smile, not mocking at all, more like Justin was pleased; but JC had that caught-out feeling again and had to drop his eyes. He stared into his coffee while Justin said, "You really are sweet."
JC didn't have the first clue what to say to that, so he didn't say anything at all. He could feel Justin's eyes on him for a few seconds, almost enough to make his cheeks burn. After that, though, Justin dropped his eyes and went on eating. JC sipped his coffee, trying not to look Justin's way, which was harder than it sounded. His view of the parking lot really wasn't very interesting.
After a while, Justin said, "Am I stopping you from writing?"
"No," JC lied. "I was done for a little bit."
"Okay, good." Justin took another forkful, chewed, swallowed. "Am I annoying you, sitting here?"
"Why would you be annoying me?"
"Well, you never talk to anybody," Justin pointed out. "I figured... I figured, you were so nice to me, maybe all you needed was someone to strike up a conversation. Now I'm thinking, maybe you just wanted to be left alone in the first place. I don't wanna bother you."
"You're not bothering me," JC said. That, at least, was the truth. "It's good to have someone to talk to sometimes," he went on, and felt stupid when he suddenly realized he'd just quoted his therapist, verbatim.
"That's true," Justin said. He looked at JC and smiled. "So I should talk?"
"Yeah," JC said. "Tell me what you do when you're not here."
Justin smiled. "You've been in my apartment. Guess."
JC thought back to Wednesday, dozing on Justin's battered couch, fixing coffee in that disturbingly neat kitchen and drinking it while looking at the contents of Justin's bookshelves. Not many books, but lots of pictures, some trophies, CDs, a few DVDs. "Something to do with sports," he guessed.
Justin grinned. "Good! Ten stalker points. I work for a charity called Sports First, we do a whole lot of sports stuff for disadvantaged kids."
"What's that like?"
So Justin talked. And talked and talked and talked. JC figured he must be good at his job: he was so clearly passionate about it, the coaching he did for basketball and soccer, the two competitive teams he helped with, the dance class he ran. There was a little rant on how, yes, dance was a sport, and no, not just because Justin was gay. JC smiled; he could see Justin as a dancer. He could see Justin as a lot of things.
Justin had finished his pancakes by the time he was done talking. "So," he said, "enough about me. What do you do when you're not here?" He drained his Coke and sat back in his seat. JC frowned, but it was a fair question.
"Not much," he confessed. "Physio for the leg. And I see a therapist. Apart from that... I pretty much come here and write."
"Sounds like it was bad," Justin said soberly. "Whatever happened to you."
JC was quiet a long time before he felt able to say, "Yeah." He could count on the fingers of one hand the people he'd told that: the physio, his therapist, his old CO, his mother. "Yeah, it was pretty bad."
"I'm sorry," Justin said, and it sounded like maybe he actually cared. Justin glanced out of the window, and JC had the sense that he was figuring out what to say next, how to handle this; that made JC feel a little dumb. He'd just opened himself right up to an almost-total stranger, after all.
Justin spent a few seconds staring out at the parking lot, and JC gave him the time to react. Then Justin said, "Are you getting better?"
"Yes," JC said. "Definitely." It was true. Four months ago, he hadn't believed it when the doctors and his therapist and his dad had promised him that time and distance would make a difference, but it was true. They had. Time, distance, treatment, therapy, writing.
Maybe Justin, just a little bit. He felt better today than he had in a long, long time.
"Glad to hear it," Justin said. "You know... God, this sounds really patronizing, but... If there's something I can do, will you let me know?"
"I will. Thanks." He smiled at Justin experimentally, and Justin smiled back. "And you don't sound patronizing." He didn't; he sounded concerned and sincere, which was totally different.
"Good," Justin said. Then he glanced at his watch. "Crap. I have to get back to work."
JC glanced at his own watch as Justin got up. Somehow they'd swallowed up half an hour. "Talk to you later," he said.
"You need another coffee?"
JC opened his mouth, not even able to remember if he'd finished or not, and closed it again. Justin swept up the cup along with the plate and Coke can and said, "Sure you do. I'll be right back."
JC watched him disappear into the kitchen with the crockery, swing doors flapping behind him, then grabbed his notebook and started to write furiously. He was so absorbed in it that when Justin came back with the coffee, he barely even looked up.
***
From his seat at the window, JC had a good view of Tiny's Bar across the street, a small, squat building that was lit up with blue and pink neon at night. It was the same place that Justin's drunken asshole attackers had come out of on Tuesday night, and as closing time approached, JC kept glancing over at it as drunkards staggered in and out. This wasn't the best neighbourhood to be wandering around in, alone and late at night.
By one-thirty, he was the only customer in the place, and Justin came to JC's booth with a fresh coffee for JC and a Coke for himself. "Hi. How's the writing going?"
"Good," JC said. He'd managed seven pages in three hours; if he kept this up, he was going to need a new notebook.
"Awesome. Mind if I sit?"
"Sure."
"Thanks," Justin said. He sat down, opened his Coke, and took a long drink from it. JC put his book away. "No, no, go ahead and write," Justin said, but somehow it was impossible with Justin sitting right there.
"How's the head?" JC asked instead.
"Not too bad, thanks," Justin said. He glanced out the window at Tiny's, frowned a little, and looked back at his Coke.
"Good."
Justin took another swig, swallowed, wiped at his mouth delicately. "I do stop you from writing," he said. "You never do when I'm sitting here."
That was true enough. JC took a breath and inclined his head slightly, trying to figure out how best to explain it. "It's hard when there's someone else here," he said eventually.
"I can get that," Justin said. "Want me to go?"
"No. It's probably good for me to take a break."
"Probably, yeah."
There didn't seem to be much to say after that. Justin took another sip of his Coke and JC tasted his coffee. Justin made great coffee, strong and sweet, just how JC liked it, and he smiled as he swallowed. Justin smiled back like making good coffee was a kind of triumph.
"Good?"
"Very."
"Cool." Justin sat back and held the Coke can against his chest, turning and turning it. It suddenly occurred to JC that Justin's chest and stomach must still be hurting a whole hell of a lot, and he'd been standing and sitting and moving around for almost eight hours without a word of complaint.
"Your chest sore?" he asked.
Justin looked down at himself. "Yeah," he said, and grimaced. "Man, I'm gonna be glad of a hot shower when I get home."
"Try sleeping with a heat pack. Or a hot water bottle."
Justin nodded. "I will. Thanks." He smiled. "Hey, at least I didn't break any ribs. Thanks to you."
JC shook his head. "I'm just glad I was there."
Justin looked down at the table. "Me too," he said in a small voice. "Like, really glad. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been."
There was a long silence, until JC said, "It's okay, Justin."
Justin nodded faintly, finished his Coke, and went back to work without another word.
By closing, it had stopped raining. There must have been some silent agreement between them, because 02:00 ticked over to 02:01 on JC's watch, and he sat there scribbling while Justin flicked out the lights in the kitchen, ran some admin thing on the cash register, locked the day's takings away under the counter.
Finally he switched off the TV and the lights over the counter. "Yo, I'm leaving now."
JC looked up. Justin was leaning against the counter with his arms folded, smiling. "C'mon, dude," he said.
JC got up and walked with him to the door, then hovered behind him while Justin locked the door. When he was done, he glanced once over his shoulder towards Tiny's, then looked at JC.
"I'm gonna wait here until you're in your car."
Justin pressed his lips together, holding JC's gaze for just a moment, and nodded. "Thanks."
"No problem."
Justin reached out toward JC with one hand, then let it fall back to his side. Instead, he nodded at JC, just a quick bob of his head, and JC nodded back. Justin patted JC's shoulder quickly, then ran for his car.
True to his word, JC hovered at the diner door until Justin was in his car, until he'd backed out of the lot and driven away. Then, smiling slightly to himself, he clambered into the Ford and started his own journey home.
***
By late Saturday morning, when JC woke up, it seemed like the weather was finally clearing up for the summer. He drank his first coffee of the day on his balcony, watching the light wind blow puffy white clouds around. When the coffee was done, he sat at his kitchen table and wrote about it, blue skies and summer weather and birds circling overhead.
He didn't bother with the diner that day – the first time he hadn't gone there in weeks. He went for a drive instead, taking advantage of the fact that his leg could stand to be cramped up in a car now for a couple of hours at a stretch, and spent the afternoon playing tourist at the coast. He even struck up a brief conversation with the lady who sold him ice cream. His therapist would probably have said he made another friend.
Justin spent Saturdays working at his other job, not that that had anything to do with anything.
The weather held. JC walked the beach to stretch his legs, and later ate dinner in a restaurant full of families with small children. The little girl at the next table, maybe five or six years old, had spent the day making a collection of pebbles, and she kept running across to JC to show him interesting ones. Her mother came to retrieve her with apologies several times, and each time, JC told her it was okay. It sort of was, although by the seventh identical-looking pebble he could probably have lived without it.
He drove home after dark, flipping stations on the radio until he found something he liked. Stevie Wonder finally saw him home.
Sunday, he woke up to a fairly awe-inspiring cramp in his leg: way too much driving, after all. Massaging it firmly under a hot shower helped a little, as did sitting with the leg stretched out along the couch for a while, hopping impatiently between news channels on the TV. There'd been another suicide bombing on the Gaza Strip. What a surprise.
By noon, two hours after he got up, the leg was pretty much okay. He popped a painkiller as a precaution, though, before going out to the car.
He often didn't get to the diner until early Sunday evening, which meant he didn't tend to catch Justin all weekend; Justin worked the morning shift on Sundays and was out of there by two. Back when he'd just been Curly-Haired Kid, that hadn't mattered. It mattered now, for some reason. Maybe his therapist had been right about making a friend.
Anyway, to hell with routine. He was whistling as he trotted down the stairs from his apartment.
The streets between his apartment and the highway, and the highway itself, were fine, but the road up to the diner itself was clogged with tourists. JC gritted his teeth and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, anything to keep himself from blaring the horn at people who couldn't move any more than he could. Eventually, though, he managed to pull into the packed parking lot. He even found a space.
The only open seat was a spot at the counter, so JC took it. Justin was serving a table in the back, and Bubblegum was serving behind the counter. Her hair was dyed a lurid green this week, and she'd switched back to the silver nose-stud after several weeks of experimenting with various different varieties.
After a minute, she moved toward JC. "Hi, what can I get you?"
"Americano, please. With sugar."
"Comin' up." Bubblegum turned away toward the espresso machine, popping her gum, and JC peered behind him, looking for Justin. Justin caught sight of him just as he was disappearing into the kitchen: he flashed JC a grin, waved his hand, and vanished. JC smiled to himself and took a sip of his coffee. Bubblegum's coffee was nowhere near as good as Justin's.
Justin served up an armful of desserts to the table just behind JC and made a point of clapping JC quickly on the shoulder as he went by. "How you doing?" he asked.
"Good," JC said. Justin squeezed his shoulder and moved over to the booth nearest the door, order pad in hand.
JC was so rarely around for the lunchtime rush that he'd barely even thought about it. Justin was going to be ridiculously busy right up until he was off, so JC pulled out his notebook and flipped to the back page. Slowly – so his handwriting would be legible to someone other than himself – he started to copy out one of his better poems. Something that, thinking about Tuesday night, and Friday, he thought Justin might get, after all. When he was done, he tore the page out, carefully so it wouldn't loosen the binding, folded it, and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
He didn't get any more contact from Justin until Justin was done working. Then Justin appeared beside him suddenly, backpack slung over his shoulder, saying, "Hey, ninja dude."
JC looked up. Justin was smiling. "Hey," JC said.
"I really have to run," Justin said apologetically. "Walk me to my car?"
"Sure."
As they left, Bubblegum called something across the diner that JC didn't catch. Justin flipped the bird behind him and pushed the door open with his other hand, then stood back to let JC go through first. JC waited at the door for Justin to catch up, and put his hands in his pockets as Justin fumbled in his own for car keys.
"You don't often come by on a Sunday," Justin pointed out.
"I wanted to say hi," JC said. "And, um." He reached into his inside pocket. "I don't know if you still wanted to read something that I wrote? Maybe not."
Justin turned to him, looking sort of amazed. "No, absolutely, I'd love to. If you wanna show me."
JC pulled the page out of his pocket and offered it to Justin. Justin took it, carefully, and said, "Thank you. I'll read it tonight. Are you around tomorrow?"
"I should be," JC said, knowing for sure that he would be. Possibly at the start of Justin's shift.
"Great. Well, I'll see you then." They'd reached Justin's car. Justin put the poem in his pants pocket and smiled. "I have to get to dance class," he said.
"The one you teach?"
"Yup." Justin reached out his hand and patted JC's shoulder, without hesitating this time. "See you tomorrow."
"Yeah."
Justin shrugged off his backpack as he stepped into the car. Smiling, JC stood back and waved him off, and Justin gave him a brilliant grin before driving out of the parking lot and off to his other life.
Parts 3 and 4
