Carter's Recourse - 25. Chapter 25

Blake nudged him awake, holding a cup of coffee, and Marc accepted it gratefully. He shook his head as he scrutinized his surroundings. Blake's apartment was comfortable, if poky. It sat overtop of a kitchen appliance store and had once been used as offices until someone had the bright idea of converting it into a loft apartment.

It was very Blake--the large life-sized cutouts of comic book characters, and the racks and racks of his prized collection attested to the guy's obsession. But the apartment was still comfortable, and Marc yawned as he pulled the blanket about him and tried to wake up.

"Morning," Blake said, flopping down into an arm chair in his pyjamas, drinking from his own mug of coffee as he flipped on the television, surfing for cartoons.

Marc smiled into his mug, realizing he was craving a cigarette. He looked around for his jacket, rummaging through the pockets and tugging out his pack and lighter, stumbling towards the kitchen and the fire escape that was the only place Blake allowed anyone to smoke at his place.

He shivered barefoot on the wrought-iron fire escape, listening to the din of Sunday morning in the city, taking a drag on his cigarette and shifting from one foot to the other. It was going to be a warm day, but the fire escape lay in the shadow of a couple of buildings, shielding it from the warming rays of the sun.

"You want breakfast?" Blake asked, sticking his head out of the kitchen window and verifying that Marc was hungry as well.

"Thanks," Marc replied, turning to offer a small smile of gratitude.

"So," Blake called through the window as he poured a coupe of bowls of cornflakes, "have you figured out what you're going to do about Will?"

Marc sighed and rested on the metal railing, watching as a dog sniffed at a dumpster then scared away a cat with a long string of barking. He had talked late into the night with Blake, getting it all out of his system, all of his fears and trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. But he was still no closer to figuring that out now than he was when he had walked out the night before.

Blake came out onto the fire escape and handed him one of the two bowls, sitting down himself on one of the overturned milk cartons. "Look, you're welcome to stay here as long as you need to." He smiled lopsidedly at his friend. "There's the spare bedroom that I'm using as storage, I could clear it out for you. Least until you work out what you want to do." Blake shrugged.

"Thanks," Marc said as he flicked the butt of his cigarette away and sat down opposite Blake and sighed. "Do you think I'm overreacting?" he asked, pushing his spoon through the milk and cornflakes in his hands.

Blake frowned considering that a moment, "Will and Andrew have a history, they're more than just friends and always will be; the problem is you didn't know that when you started a relationship with Will." He gazed introspectively over the edge of the rail, "The question is, can you deal with that, or have you had enough?"

"I don't know," Marc replied sincerely. "I love Will, but I don't give him what he needs. But I can't break up with him, what am I going to do about school, home and shit?"

"You can't stay with someone because you're materially invested," Blake pointed out, gesturing with a spoonful of cornflakes. "It's not healthy."

"I know," Marc replied swallowing, staring out over the rooftops of the city. "It's not just that, but that's a factor, right?"

"Then take that factor away," Blake said simply trying to be sensible. "Your university is paid for this semester, you can get a student loan or a bursary to cover your expenses for the rest of the summer term." He shrugged and offered a small reassuring smile, "And next year get a part-time job."

Marc focused on what Blake was saying, "Yeah?"

Blake nodded, "I already offered you a room, so you're going to have a roof over your head, so you're okay that way." He finished off his cornflakes and set the bowl back inside the window, "So can you deal with the fact that Andrew is a part of Will's life or not?"

Marc cursed and shook his head. "Will knows Andrew's after him, he knows and he just won't tell the guy to get lost, it drives me nuts. Like I can't even breathe without that guy lurking around." Marc took a sigh, "It wouldn't be so bad, but it's every time he shows up. Like, we go months without seeing him, then boom there he is sniffing around again."

"So you can't handle it?" Blake pressed.

Marc closed his hand into a tight fist, "What I can't handle is knowing Will still loves him. I can't compete with that."

"You shouldn't have to," Blake said. "It's not about competing, you either accept it, or you don't, and if you don't then you need to walk away."

Marc leaned his cheek against the cold metal railing and curled up against it, wondering if he could handle it, and what that meant if he couldn't.

* * *

West's father was out working in the barn, shifting bags of seed and tossing them up into the trailer of the tractor ready for planting, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of a gloved hand as he noticed his eldest son standing in the doors to the barn.

"I figured you'd still be asleep," the older man said, resting a hand on the edge of the trailer.

"I don't sleep in," West replied simply; he was used to being up at the crack of dawn making the rounds and ensuring that his men had everything they needed for the day ahead. He hadn't realized how used to mornings he had become.

"Makes sense," his father said coming around the trailer to grab another bag of seeds, stopping again to look into his son's eyes, recognizing the haunted look that lay there. He didn't comment on it, it was something his boy would just have to work through. "How long until you go back?" he asked.

West stiffened a little, "I'm being recalled to Catterick tomorrow."

"Catterick, that's in England," his father said, struggling to remember. "I thought your unit was in Iraq?"

"I'm being reassigned." West came forward and started to help his father, lifting a couple of the other bags of seeds.

"That's odd," his father stopped again, setting his bag down. "I thought they needed every soldier they could get in Iraq; in America it's gotten so bad that they're not allowing their troops to go home."

"I don't know," West replied truthfully, "but I have to go, they're expecting me."

"Well at least we got to see you," his father said touching his son's arm. "Have you seen Peter yet?"

West sat down on the edge of the trailer and shook his head, "I don't think I should; after everything he's been through, the last thing he needs is to see me."

"I don't know," his father said sitting down beside him, "sounds like exactly what he needs. He would benefit knowing you cared enough to stop and see him."

"I'll think about it," West said tiredly, smiling up at his father. "I just don't want to upset him further..."

"It's not him I'm worried about," his father said. "I think you need to remember that there are some good things in this world, good things that you're out there fighting for."

West closed his eyes and smiled faintly. "That's the one thing I never forgot," he said opening his eyes again.

"Take the truck," his father said, wresting the keys out of the pocket of his jeans and handing them over to his son. "Go tell him that, not me."

West smiled down at the keys, and then back at his father. "Thanks," he managed, fighting back a wave of emotion.

His father shrugged and went back to work.

* * *

She was watching him again.

Peter looked up from his book and smiled at his mother, peering through the partition that separated the kitchen and living room, and he smiled at her. He wondered who needed reassuring more that he was okay, him or his mom. She was making doubly sure he was close by her, even going so far as to taking a day off from the restaurant where she worked just to keep an eye on him. Natural, Peter guessed, considering everything that had happened.

She returned to doing the laundry as Peter went back to reading, wondering if he could slip away to Will's house at some point. He felt better there, more at home than he ever had actually at home. Though he had a feeling Will would be just as bad as his mom was and wouldn't be nearly as subtle about it.

Peter sighed; at least he knew he was loved. And he smiled tightly, trying not to focus too much on his ordeal; he was okay, Becky was okay, it would just take some time until everything was back to normal.

He shifted on the couch, knocking down the blanket that was always draped over the back of it, and he set it straight again, trying his best to stay focused on the book despite the fact that he was getting restless. Will had given him the book, and as much as Peter enjoyed reading, Will's taste usually resulted in an exceptionally verbose tome detailing in minutiae the dichotomy of life and art... Peter generally preferred something written in English.

He shifted on the couch again, trying to get comfortable, knowing he was fidgety; he never could sit still for long periods at a time, that's why he liked working outdoors, under the sun tending his gardens, and he looked wistfully out of the window at the backyard that could use a little of his tender loving care.

"I'm going to tend the garden," Peter said abandoning the book and reaching for his coat.

"If you hold on a moment, I'll come out with you," his mother promised.

"That's okay, Mom, take your time, I'll be fine..." Peter started for the patio door, as his mother hurried after him, drying her hands on a towel.

"I have some things to do out there..." she said feebly, knowing full well the garden was Peter's domain, and the only time she had anything to do out there was when she retreated out there to sit on the small patio with her Cosmo magazine.

"I'm okay, Mom," Peter reassured with a small smile, stopping to hug her tightly. "Honest, you finish up I'll just be right there..." he pointed to a flowerbed that could use some weeding steadily being overgrown by wild rhubarb.

"All right," his mother said reluctantly, letting him go after a pause, returning to her kitchen only after she was sure that's the only place he was going. He sat down on the edge of the flowerbed and began picking at the rhubarb roots trying to get them out whole, knowing it was only a temporary fix as the stuff never seemed to want to stay away. Too fond of his secret fertilizer recipe he surmised.

He heard the doorbell ring, but didn't worry about it; it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and so probably someone looking for his brother, or another pair of Jehovah's Witnesses out to convert his mother.

He looked up and started, as the patio door slid open on a tall, thin figure that was unmistakable to Peter.

"West!" he gasped, dropping his trowel and staring in shock.

West stood uncertainly a moment, swallowing and offering a questioning smile, wondering if it was all right that he was there.

Peter stood up slowly, shyly, head tilted down so he could look at West through the hair that hung partially over one eye and biting his lip uncertainly. But his resolve cracked first, as the two estranged young lovers came together in a tight embrace, both of them holding tightly to the other. Reassuring each other that they were there, in a way that only physical contact could do.

"You came back..." Peter murmured, his lips moving against West's neck, smelling that all too familiar scent and feeling the texture of that skin.

"I-I always will," West said, resting his chin on the top of Peter's head, feeling the warmth of that lithe body clutching onto him.

Peter leaned back, "Yeah? What about a fucking call once in a while?" He thumped West on the shoulder, "Don't feed me some line about there being no phones in Iraq... you could've used one of those satellite things..."

West chuckled as he fended off Peter's light blows, "I'm sorry, it was difficult, I wasn't in a place long enough, and our mail is always censored... I didn't want anyone reading how I felt about you..."

Peter arched an eyebrow in a very Carter-esque suspicious manner, "Uh-huh..."

"And I didn't know what to say..." West swallowed, smiling softly, his thumb pushing Peter's hair from those shining blue eyes that reflected so much hope.

"'I'm alive' would have been a start," Peter huffed folding his arms.

"I'm sorry," West said reaching into his pocket and drawing out his wallet and pulling out the photo he had there. "I kept your grad picture with me the whole time..."

Peter blinked, "I don't know if I like the idea of you jerking off in a desert with all those boys in uniform around..."

West chuckled. "That's not what I meant," he said reaching out to touch Peter again, making sure he was real. "I mean, I love you."

"I know," Peter said quietly, turning into West's gentle touch, letting West's fingers caress his skin as he closed his eyes. "I love you, too." He snapped out of it and glared at West again, "But a five minute phone call... come on!"

West laughed at Peter's indignant expression, nodding his head, "I promise, the next time I go off to war, you'll get a phone call."

"Even if there's bullets whizzing by, and a hundred bad guys are storming your position?" Peter demanded, grinning.

"Even if I'm in the middle of hand-to-hand combat with a hundred bad guys," West promised solemnly.

"Good!" Peter said in satisfaction, rising up on the tips of his toes to kiss West lightly on the lips, stopping, "Even if you're hanging upside down about to be tortured for being an infidel dog child of Capitalism?"

"I promise," West chuckled. He had almost forgotten Peter's twisted imagination, and he kissed Peter gently.

"I missed you," Peter admitted once they pulled back for air.

"I missed you too," West smiled. "I can't stay long, I have to go back soon."

"Oh," Peter's face fell. "How soon?" he asked, looking up, a cheeky grin forming on his face.

West turned towards the house, "But your mother's in there..."

"Do you want to say good bye or not?" Peter grinned, taking a firm hold of West's hand and all but dragging him into the house, past a surprised Mrs. McCormick who was bringing out a couple of glasses of juice.

Peter stopped, turning bright red, looking up at his mother, and glancing back at West, "Mom...I..."

Old Mrs. McCormick shook her head as she handed them the juice. "I'll be outside reading my Cosmo," she said reaching for the magazine, knowing how much her son loved the young soldier that had come back to see him. And like any mother, she only wanted what was best for her boy.

Peter smiled, downed the juice and was once again leading the way upstairs, a protesting West in tow, who knew he wasn't getting much say in this, and was not really fighting that hard against it.