"Uncle Mouse? Can we get some ice cream?"
Mouse tears his gaze away from his husband, looking over at Owen, far ahead of them on the sidewalk and excitedly pointing toward an ice cream truck parked along the side of the road. He glances over at Will, who just chuckles, as if to say he asked you, not me.
"Sure, buddy," Mouse says, grabbing his wallet. "Why not?"
He drops Will's hand so he can grab some cash, handing it to Owen, who scampers off in the direction of the van.
Will chuckles again. "You didn't ask me if I wanted any ice cream."
Mouse puts his wallet away and grabs Will's hand again. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize 11-year-olds made a doctor's salary and were capable of purchasing their own treats."
"I'll have a treat for you later," Will murmurs, low in his chest in the way that does things to Mouse.
He shakes his head, refusing to let it work. "You are insufferable."
Will just smiles, and squeezes his hand, and they watch as Owen makes his purchase and rushes back up to them. "Is that SpongeBob?" Will asks.
Owen nods, hastily unwrapping the treat, and putting the wrapper and some bills and change into Mouse's outstretched hand. "Yeah!"
"Better eat that quickly, bud," Will says. "We're only a couple blocks away, and we shouldn't bring ice cream into the ED."
"I thought that eating quickly wasn't good for you, doctor," Mouse teases.
Will just rolls his eyes as they continue walking. "Consume it at a healthy but expedient rate of consumption. Better?"
Mouse is about to respond, when something catches his attention. Instinct kicks in, and he drops Will's hand, quickly positioning himself between Will and Owen, and the road.
"What..." Will starts, stumbling from the sudden movement and trying to regain his footing, but he's interrupted by the screeching of tires from the road.
The three of them watch as a car speeds down the street, turning so rapidly into the Emergency driveup that it almost clips a barrier. There's the sound of a car door opening, a struggle, and then the door slamming shut before the car screeches off again.
Mouse tells himself to stand down. There was no threat. But next to him, his husband is now tense, staring at the space where the car had been.
"Go," he says. "I've got Owen."
Will nods, kissing his cheek quickly before running down the sidewalk. Owen looks up at him, and Mouse just shrugs.
"Never a dull moment at Med, it seems."
By the time they make it to the ED, Will's nowhere to be seen.
"Mouse."
He turns toward the voice, finding Dr. Charles, smiling at the two of them.
"Doctor," Mouse says, nodding. He's impressed Dr. Charles remembered he didn't like hugs.
"And Owen," Daniel says, opening his arms for a hug, which Owen readily gives. "You've really grown up."
"I guess," Owen says, seemingly unconvinced.
"We heard that Will was here," Sharon Goodwin says, rounding a corner, and kneeling so Owen can give her a hug as well. "But we're pleasantly surprised to see the two of you, as well."
"Family trip," Mouse says. "We convinced Natalie to let us bring Owen to see a Cubs game."
Sharon nods. "I take it that means Dr. Manning isn't here as well."
Mouse shakes his head. "No. She's..." He swallows the 'pregnant'. It wasn't his news to share. "...busy."
"How about we check out the doctor's lounge, Owen?" Daniel says, and Owen looks up at Mouse, seeking permission.
"Go," Mouse says, trusting Dr. Charles, watching the two of them walk off together.
"Will's with the patient," Sharon says, once they're gone. "If you..."
"Will is not with the patient," Will says, walking up behind Mouse, who jumps at his voice. "Sorry, baby. Didn't mean to startle you."
Mouse shakes his head. "It's fine. Is everything okay?"
Will runs a hand through his hair, looking like he wants to start on a rant, but seemingly thinking better of it as he glances over at Sharon.
"It's good to see you again," he says instead, giving her a hug.
"I heard you made quite an entrance," she says, amusement in her voice.
Will chuckles. "I wasn't trying to. But I do want to talk to you about that patient. I know I'm not a doctor here, but..."
"We always value your opinion, Dr. Halstead," she says. "Mouse, would you like to..."
"I'll go find Owen and Dr. Charles," he says, worrying about the kid despite himself. "We'll be... somewhere."
Will nods, smiling that smile that Mouse knows is only for him, before turning and walking with Sharon in the direction of a room.
Mouse is pretty sure Owen would rather sit in a chair in the waiting room with his tablet, but once the device runs out of power, he seizes on the excuse to take Owen for a walk, instead.
"Are we done?" Owen asks after their second round of the hospital.
Mouse grabs his phone, just to check. No messages, no calls.
"Uncle Will is still busy, buddy," he says. "But if you want to go somewhere else, I can let him know."
"But I'm missing the..."
Mouse sighs. "I know. Okay. Let's go see if any of the nurses have a charging cable for you to use."
Owen moves to start running, but Mouse holds out his hand, which Owen reluctantly takes. Despite the relative lack of car traffic, he still didn't want to take any chances.
They're approaching the door to the ED when his instincts kick in again. He isn't sure what it is, but every cell in his body is suddenly telling him to run.
"Behind me, Owen," he says instead, positioning himself between Owen and the door just as a woman bursts through, handgun pointed back into the building.
Owen gasps, and it's enough. The woman spins toward the two of them. Mouse instinctively reaches for his sidearm, remembering too late where he is, and that he doesn't have it.
The woman fires, and he can feel a dull thud in his chest. Owen screams as Mouse falls to the ground, watching as the woman is taken down by hospital security.
His shirt feels warm. Damp. When he brings his hand to his chest, it comes away red.
Oh.
Right.
He wasn't wearing a vest.
He's been shot before, but this is different. He knows immediately that it's different, as his vision starts to blur.
"Greg!" Will's next to him, now, but he can barely make out his husband's face. "No. No no no no no."
"I..." Mouse tries, but it's painful to speak now.
"You... you stay with me, baby. Don't you dare pass out," Will says, looking around desperately. "HEY! I NEED..."
"I love you," Mouse whispers, and Will's panicked expression is the last thing he sees before everything goes black.
"Your mother isn't picking up, and your father hasn't called back."
Greg glares up at the principal, as if to say I told you so. "Can I go to detention now?"
The principal sighs and holds out a sheet of paper toward him. "Yes. I expect this returned tomorrow, signed."
Greg grabs it with his free hand, his other hand holding the bag of ice against his face again, the cold stinging his skin but relieving the dull ache there. He isn't sure which he likes less.
"Whatever." He stuffs the paper in his backpack, and starts to leave.
"And Gregory," the principal says, waiting until he's looking at him again. "Next time it won't just be a suspension."
"He started it," Greg mutters under his breath, not caring whether the principal heard. It never mattered anyway.
His friend Zach is waiting for him outside the office, and Greg doesn't ask how he'd managed to get out of class.
"So?"
Greg shrugs. "Suspended for two weeks."
"Last time was only one."
"Yeah, well." Greg presses the ice to his face again. "They don't want me punching bullies."
"He deserved it," Zach says. "They deserved it. I can't believe you took down both of them."
"I don't want to talk about it," Greg says, and he really doesn't. He doesn't like the way he felt powerful -- useful -- when he was knocking them down to size. The fear in their eyes. The way Elizabeth had looked at him afterward, gratitude on her face.
Zach makes a non-committal noise, but doesn't push. "They deserved it," he repeats.
"I'll see you after school," Greg says, not looking back at his friend.
When he gets home to their trailer, he can see his mother's legs on the bed through the open bedroom door. He's unsurprised she's passed out again. He knows he should probably check on her.
Instead, he pulls the sheet of paper from his backpack, grabs a reference from a drawer in the living room -- some old permission slip from years ago, now torn and mostly illegible -- and signs her signature on the sheet. He honestly doesn't even need the reference these days, but having something to compare it to at least gives him reassurance that the school won't know the difference.
"I beat up a couple guys at school today," he calls into the bedroom, but she doesn't stir. He's unsurprised by that, as well.
He puts the papers away and rummages through the cupboards for something to eat, finding only a stale packet of crackers. He hopes his mother hadn't spent all their money this week on getting her fix. He knows he should check her purse. He knows he should go the store and buy some food and hide it away at the nearby construction site.
Instead, he sits down at the table and nibbles the crackers, making each one last as long as he could.
Food could be a problem for the next day.
"You're not supposed to be here," Zach greets him the next morning as he walks into the schoolyard.
Greg just shoves him out of the way, using slightly more force than necessary. "I have to return some paperwork."
"You know your parents are supposed to return that," Zach says, a tinge of anger in his voice.
Greg stops and glares at him. "What are you doing?"
"I'm just..."
"You know damn well my parents won't return anything, so what is this? What's happening?"
They stare at each other for a moment, neither willing to back down, until Zach deflates, and Greg feels a bit of pride that he'd won. "I can't be friends with you anymore," Zach whispers, apologetic, looking away and staring down at his feet.
Greg tells himself he knew this day was coming. He'd always known Zach's parents had always disapproved of him. Always thought he was a bad influence.
It doesn't help relieve any of the pain he's suddenly feeling.
"Fine," he says, turning toward the school building, hoping Zach wouldn't see the tears forming in his eyes. He'd always known Zach would choose his family over him.
"Greg..." Zach starts, but Greg doesn't want to hear it. He starts running, through the front doors, until he can't hear Zach calling his name anymore. Until he's alone.
He's always alone.
He spends the day wandering the abandoned construction site, tromping around the twisted and rusty rebar, kicking over crumbling walls, and sitting behind the long concrete tubes when the sun becomes too much. In many ways, it's more familiar than his home. And here, his dad wouldn't be around to yell at him. His mom wouldn't be around asking for help with everything.
After the sun sets, he makes his way to the freeway overpass, sitting down on the sidewalk and dangling his legs down through a gap in the fencing and watching the traffic. He isn't sure why, exactly, but the car headlights are calming. Soothing.
Predictable. Reliable. Unlike the rest of his life.
"Why didn't you jump?"
He looks up to see a redheaded man in a dark blue long-sleeved shirt standing above him, regarding him with concern but also... love. The wind tousles his curls, but the man makes no attempt to smooth his hair out. Greg knows he's seen the man before, but can't place him, for some reason.
He isn't sure why seeing the man makes him feel safe.
"What?" Greg's pretty sure an adult should be stopping him from jumping off the bridge, not asking him why he didn't.
The man moves until he's sitting next to Greg, and shrugs. "Why didn't you jump?" he repeats.
"There's fencing in the way," Greg says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
The man hums, as if considering the response, but doesn't say anything else, instead staring out at the cars as they pass underneath them. Greg joins him again, tracking the red tail lights as they appear underneath them until they disappear into the distance, and then tracking a pair of headlights until they pass underneath.
Predictable. Reliable.
"There wouldn't be a point to it," Greg says, after a while. He hadn't even been aware that he'd still been considering the question.
"To dying?" The man's voice isn't full of judgment, in any way.
Greg nods. "If I'm going to die, I want to die for something. For someone. Life's a waste otherwise."
"Hasn't your life been a waste?"
Greg wants to object to the question, but when he glances over, the man has a small smile on his face that's somehow reassuring.
"No," he says, turning back to the lights. "I stood up for Elizabeth Jones yesterday. I made a difference, even if just to one person."
He waits for the man to say something else, but nothing seems to come. And when he glances back over, the man's gone, with no indication that he'd ever been there in the first place.
Greg grumbles to himself, turning once again to the lights underneath him.
"Gregory Michael Gerwitz," the manager reads, squinting at Greg over the application in his hands. "How old are you, son?"
"Sixteen, sir," Greg says, sitting up as straight as he can, hoping it makes him look at least a little bit taller. A little bit older. "As it says on the application."
"Birth date?" He's definitely suspicious.
"April 12, 1983." He tries to look as confident as he can when answering.
The manager glances down at the application again, then back to Greg's face, before setting the sheet of paper down. "Fine. You start tomorrow. 3:30 PM."
Greg allows himself to feel a small sense of victory. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet," the man says, standing and offering a handshake, which Greg accepts. "You'd better be half as hard a worker as you say you are."
"I won't let you down, sir."
"Would you like to upgrade to a large combo for only..."
"For god sakes, just give me goddamn burger. Fries. Diet coke." The man in front of him is angry, and it takes all of Greg's self-restraint not to meet fire with fire.
"Of course, sir," he says instead, putting on his best customer service smile. "That'll be..."
"Greg. In the back. Now." His manager's voice calls out from somewhere behind him.
Fuck.
"Lindsay, take over for Greg," his manager continues, and Lindsay unceremoniously pushes him aside, taking his place in front of the cash register, smiling her largest and most obnoxious smile.
"Sorry about that, sir. That'll be..."
Greg doesn't stick around, ready to make an excuse as he walks into the small office in the back.
"What can I help you with, sir?"
The manager's face is harsh. "I think you know what this is about, son."
"I really don't, sir." He just needs to play dumb. Maybe it was about something else.
"You're fourteen."
Greg winces, despite himself. Dammit. He should have just lied again. "By law, fourteen year olds are allowed to..."
"Your apron."
Greg hesitates, trying to decide if it's worth making a scene, before cursing to himself and untying the apron, placing it into his manager's outstretched hand.
The manager nods. "Thank you. Now leave."
"What about my pay?"
The manager's eyes narrow. "Son, you're lucky that I don't call the cops."
"Go ahead," Greg says, calling his bluff. Two can play that game. "I worked two shifts before today. My age doesn't change the fact that you hired me. I'd like to see how the cops react to you illegally withholding pay from an employee upon termination."
They stare each other down for what feels like hours until the a small smile cracks the manager's lips, and he nods, reaching into the safe in the corner, grabbing a couple bills, and pressing them into Greg's hand.
"You were never here," the manager says. "You never worked here. If I hear that..."
"Yeah, yeah." Greg shoves the money into his pocket. "Piss off."
Normally, Greg would've turned around the instant the flashing blue lights came into his vision. He figured it was better to avoid cops whenever possible, and cops around his home were bound to be trouble. But another cop car drives up behind him, passing him on its way up the road, and he figures he'd been seen anyway. It would be worse now if he didn't at least find out what was happening.
His father's standing outside their trailer, talking to a moustached man in a blue uniform. He points over at Greg as they talk.
Yeah. Definitely busted.
"What's going on?" Greg asks, trying to sound as neutral as possible as he approaches the pair.
"Gregory?" the cop asks.
"Yeah?" Greg glances at his father, who gives him a look that Greg understands immediately. Deny, deny, deny, or there'd be consequences. "Is there a problem, officer?"
"Sergeant Reynolds," the cop says, and it takes a second to realize he's introducing himself. "This is Lieutenant Hernandez."
Another cop, her dark hair up in a ponytail, appears beside Reynolds. "Gregory. I'm so sorry."
Greg looks between the three faces, confused. "For what? What happened?"
"Your mother's dead," Hernandez says, her face full of sympathy. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
Greg's sure he looks stunned, not because he's upset, but because he'd never believed it would actually happen. "Overdose?" It comes out before he can stop it, and he notices his father tense up.
Reynolds and Hernandez share a look before she turns back to him. "The autopsy results will determine whether..."
"I'm not paying for no damn autopsy," his father says, gruffly.
"This one's outside your control, Mr. Gerwitz," Reynolds says, glaring at him.
"We're not sure about the cause of death," Hernandez starts again. "But the Sergeant and I have some questions for you."
"Where were you last night?" Reynolds asks.
"Home. Doing homework," Greg says. It's a half-truth. He had been home, at least.
"Did you see your mother last night?"
"She was asleep," Greg says. Her legs had been in their usual place in the bed, and he hadn't bothered checking on her. He wonders now if she'd already been dead then.
"Does your mother often sleep early in the evenings?"
"She must've had a long day," Greg says, defensive now. "Why?"
"Where were you today, Gregory?" Hernandez asks.
Greg glances at his father before answering. "At school."
Hernandez and Reynolds share another look, and Reynolds sighs. "Son. We know you haven't been at school all week."
Fuck.
"I had a note..." Greg says, meekly.
"'My son Gregory has come down with the flu'," Hernandez says. "Fast recovery." She looks him over. "And nice fast food uniform."
Fuck fuck fuck.
"Sarge," another cop says, coming up to Reynolds and whispering something in his ear. Greg can feel his stomach drop further and further until the man's looking back at him.
"Son, would you come with us?"
Fuck no. "Am I under arrest, officer?"
Reynolds looks sad at the question, Greg thinks. "No, Greg. We just wanted to..."
"He's not going anywhere," his father barks.
"Mr. Gerwitz..." Hernandez starts, trying to mediate. "We just want to..."
"Gregory?" Another woman walks up to them, smiling at Greg in a way that makes him want to punch her in the face.
"What?!" He's getting really tired of people saying his name.
"I'm Hannah Hensley." She's still smiling at him, but Greg thinks there's no warmth behind it. "Child protective services."
Greg starts running.
He isn't sure how, exactly, he manages to get away. There had been yelling, and sounds of a commotion, and he wonders if his father had caused a distraction or something else had happened, but he hadn't dared look back.
His legs are burning and his lungs are fire, but he doesn't dare stop. He thinks he can still hear sirens, but it's impossible to tell whether they're real or just in his head.
"Why are you running?"
He almost trips from surprise, quickly regaining his footing before glancing to his right. A tall redheaded man's there, wearing a dark blue long-sleeve shirt, and running along beside him.
Fuck.
"Stay... away..." he pants, as best he can, but the man doesn't seem deterred.
Greg knows the man.
Greg's sure he's never seen the man before in his life.
"You're welcome to try and outrun me," the man says, smiling in a way that seems genuine, his eyes twinkling at Greg.
Greg trusts the man.
He stops, almost doubling over when he does, and retching into a nearby bush. He wipes his mouth with his hand, and looks up, stumbling and almost falling backward from surprise when he sees the man there, looming over him.
The man holds out a hand and Greg hesitates before taking it, and he finds himself pulled back to his feet.
"Why are you running?"
"I... stopped... running..." Greg says, doubling over, hands on his thighs, panting. "...idiot."
The man just laughs. "Okay, smartass. What are you running from?"
"Everything." Greg sits down on the side of the road, head between his knees, still trying to catch his breath. His lungs still feel like they're on fire.
"You're not running from me," the man says, and when Greg peeks over at him, he's smiling at Greg again -- genuine and warm.
Greg still has no idea who the man is.
"My mom died," he says, a few moments later, when he feels like he's able to breathe a little more properly.
"I'm sorry."
Greg shakes his head. "I'm not. She had it coming."
"I'm sorry because it made you feel like you had to run away from everything."
Greg refuses to look at the man. "They were going to take me away."
"Would that have been a bad thing?"
Greg laughs at the question. "The fuck you mean?! Of course it would've been a bad thing."
"Why?"
The question is genuine, and without a hint of judgement, and Greg thinks he's taken aback by it. "It... it just would be."
"I see."
They're quiet for a bit, and Greg takes a deep breath, wishing he had some water to help the burning in his throat.
"At least with my parents, I know where I stand." He doesn't think he'd really understood his feelings before the statement comes out of his mouth.
"Alone," the man says.
Greg nods. "And I can rely on myself. I don't need them. The system would... punish me. Wear me down. A foster family would just use me. My parents at least just leave me the fuck alone." He isn't sure how much of the sentiment is his, versus a fear his father had drilled into him from an early age.
"You don't need them," the man repeats. "You don't need anyone but yourself?"
"I don't," Greg agrees, taking another deep breath. "I can trust myself. I can rely on myself."
"Yourself and the $40 in your pocket."
Greg had forgotten about the money. He puts a hand in his pocket, relief washing over him as he feels the crumpled bills there.
"Myself and the money," Greg says. "Money that I made for myself. I don't need anyone but myself."
"Interesting."
Greg looks over to ask him what he means by that, but the man's gone, and he finds himself sitting alone on the side of the road.
The buzzing of his phone on the table next to him pulls Mouse out of his thoughts. He squints at the screen before grabbing his phone, rolling out of bed, exiting the room as quietly as he could, and finding a quiet corner of the shelter where he can have a conversation without waking everyone up.
"Hey."
"Hey," Homer's voice says. "You okay?"
"It's 3 AM," Mouse says. "I'm safe."
"That's not what I asked."
Mouse doesn't say anything for a bit, instead just listening to Homer's breathing on the line. Homer was on the other side of the phone. Homer was alive.
Homer was alive, unlike...
"I keep... keep seeing them," Mouse whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. "Kevin. Joe. Phil."
"Rob," Homer completes for him. "Me... me, too."
"Kevin staring up... up at the sky," Mouse says, the images flashing through his brain. He opens his eyes in a failed attempt to make the images go away. "His... his fucking lifeless eyes. Joe's arm way the... the fuck over there and his... his body next to you. Phil..." He isn't sure why he's doing this to himself.
"Mouse," Homer interrupts, voice stern. "Stop."
"Phil fucking screaming and screaming until..."
"Greg."
Mouse winces at the name. He hates it when Homer uses the name.
"I'm fine, Jason," he says in response, imagining that Homer was reacting the same way to his own name, but knowing that he didn't mind it nearly as much. Homer hadn't shed his old life when he joined the military. Mouse had.
"You using again?"
Mouse had been expecting that question, but the lie on the tip of his tongue refuses to fall. He'd never lied to Homer in his life, and Homer knew it.
"Yes."
"Dammit, Mouse..."
"It works, okay?! It... it fucking works."
Homer doesn't seem to know what to say to that, and Mouse listens to the sound of his breathing.
Homer was still breathing. Homer was still alive.
"I'm not okay," Homer says, and Mouse immediately snaps to attention. Of course Homer wasn't okay. Of course that's why he was calling.
"Talk to me."
"I'm standing on the roof," Homer says, and Mouse immediately feels his heart drop.
"Homer. Don't you... don't you fucking dare..."
"I won't," Homer says, the sincerity in his voice disarming Mouse as much as the words. "I won't. I just thought... it would be so easy. Then it'd all be over. No more guilt. No more pain."
Mouse isn't sure what to say to that. He squeezes his eyes shut again.
"But it'd be selfish," Homer says, after a while. "You need me."
"You're the one... one who called... called me," Mouse says, refusing to admit the truth to the words. "Sounds like... like you're the one who needs... needs me."
Homer's quiet for a moment. "Yeah. I do," he admits, and Mouse has to wipe away a tear.
"Then, as long... long as you need me, I'll... I'll be here," Mouse says, and it sounds like a promise that he tells himself he has to keep now. "I'm here... here for you, Homer."
"Jay," the man says, after a moment. "Call me Jay. I... I want to leave it all behind. Somehow."
"Jay," Mouse repeats, even though he can't relate to the sentiment. "I'm... I'm here for you, Jay."
"Right back atcha, man."
Neither of them seems to know what to say for a while, and Mouse finds himself starting to fall asleep to the soft sounds of Jay's breathing on the other end of the line.
"I should go," Jay says, jerking him back to reality -- and the unpleasantness of full consciousness. "You should sleep."
"I... I should sleep," Mouse agrees, even though he's pretty sure he won't be able to tonight.
"We should both sleep. Call me if you..." Jay starts, before seemingly thinking better of it. "Just... whenever it becomes too much, call me instead, man. Whenever. Wherever. Promise me."
"I... I promise," Mouse whispers, like he's afraid to agree.
"Good night, Mouse," Jay says before the line goes dead, and Mouse slumps back against the wall, staring off into space.
"I thought you said you didn't need anyone but yourself."
Mouse jumps at the voice, turning to see a man sitting on the floor beside him, smiling gently at him. He can't make out much more than a mop of curly hair in the dark, but the man...
He trusts the man, even though he's never seen him before in his life.
"When'd I say that?" Mouse asks, unsure where the statement had come from. "And who the fuck are you?"
The man just smiles at him, and Mouse thinks he looks sad at the question. "Just someone who cares about you."
"No one fucking cares about me," Mouse says leaning back against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut again.
"Jay cared enough about you to check on you. He's not 'no one'."
"Jay called because he needed me," Mouse says, refusing to give in, even as the objection feels hollow.
"Greg..." the man starts, but Mouse shakes his head and jumps to his feet, furious now.
"Fuck no. You don't get to use that name. You haven't fucking earned using that name."
The man shakes his head, slowly standing, his hands held out in front of him in an apologetic gesture. "I'm sorry. Mouse. You know Jay cares about you."
"The fuck you know about caring about someone?!" Mouse spits, his anger refusing to dissipate. Who does this man think he is, anyway?! "You've never had to watch someone you care about fucking die in front of you! Watch your fucking family die in front of you! The only real fucking family I ever had, and they're all fucking gone!"
The man looks saddened by this, and Mouse thinks to himself that maybe the man actually did know, and understand. After all, in a shelter full of veterans, it was extremely likely that many of them shared that particular trauma.
"I need Jay," Mouse whispers, his voice breaking, the tears falling freely now. He squeezes his eyes shut. He didn't want to admit the truth. He wanted to keep pretending. "He's all I fucking have left."
He waits for the man to say something else, but when he opens his eyes again, the man's gone, and he's alone in the darkened hallway with his thoughts.
Mouse fights back tears as the phone rings. He's a failure. Again. In so many ways.
"Hey," Jay says when the call connects.
"I can't... can't do this anymore," Mouse says, because if he doesn't just get it out now, he doesn't know if he'll be able to.
"I'm here, Mouse. Talk to me. What's going on?" Jay's voice is reassuring, but he also sounds... distracted?
Right. Of course.
"You're on a case."
"We're driving to a case. I can talk. Talk to me, man."
Mouse shakes his head. "No. We can..."
"Don't you fucking dare hang up on me, Greg."
Mouse hesitates, just for a moment, before sighing. He could never say no to Jay.
"I can't focus... focus on these... these classes."
"So don't," Jay says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world.
"Jay. I... I failed half my... my classes last semester. If I don't... don't make..."
"Drop out."
"Jason." Mouse is getting upset now, and he doesn't know why.
He can hear Jay sigh. "Look, man. You don't need the degree. You've gotten by without it, right? You were going to college because it felt like the next step. It sounds like it no longer feels like the next step. So drop out."
Jay makes it sound so simple. Surely it couldn't...
"So what... what would I do instead? Another... another grand theft auto to get... get myself to another state where... where I can start over?"
"Maybe don't steal a truck this time," Jay says, and Mouse can hear his grin in his voice.
"Fuck you. You... you know that's not what... what I'm worried about."
Jay's quiet for a bit before he responds. "There's extra space at my place. You could..."
Mouse doesn't let himself consider the offer. It'd be too tempting otherwise. "I don't want your... your fucking handouts, Jay."
"You didn't let me finish. You know that, uh... group you tried to sell the players to?"
Mouse feels his face burn. It hadn't been one of his prouder moments. "Yeah?"
"We, uh... need a man on the inside. I totally understand if you don't want to..."
"I'll do it," Mouse interrupts, not giving himself time to think. This was something he knew how to do.
Jay laughs. "Not so fast, man. Get yourself over to Chicago first, and then we'll talk."
"This is... is fucking blackmail," Mouse mutters, even though he's smiling.
"No. It's extortion," Jay says, and Mouse can hear the grin again.
Mouse sighs. "Fine. I'll figure... figure out how to..."
"Plane ticket sent to your phone now," Jay says, the grin still present.
"Jay, you... you wouldn't fucking dare..."
"It's non-refundable. You're not going to waste my money, are you, Mouse?"
Mouse curses to himself, but he's grinning now. "I hate you."
"Uh huh. Go drop out," Jay says. "I'll see you in a few days."
"Thanks," Mouse says, because he isn't sure what else to say. He hopes Jay can hear the appreciation in his voice.
"I love you, man," Jay says, and then the line cuts out.
Mouse is glad he hadn't had to respond.
"Chicago, huh?"
Mouse isn't expecting the question, and glares at the man who sits down in a chair across the table from him.
"Do you make a habit of eavesdropping on private conversations?!" he hisses, starting to stand.
The man just shrugs, and smiles at him, and for a second he thinks he thinks he recognizes Jay's smile.
He shakes off the feeling. The man was handsome, sure -- an attractive mop of copper hair on his head and a dark blue long-sleeved shirt that shows off his arms -- but certainly wasn't Jay.
But somehow, he trusts the man.
"Yeah. Chicago," he says, sitting down again.
"Nice city," the man says. "Why'd you want the job so much?"
Mouse tries to scowl at the man, but his easygoing expression is somehow too comforting. "It's a job," he says instead, trying to sound nonchalant.
"It's a job with Jay," the man says. "Why can't you just move there without the job? Crash with Jay until you find something?"
Mouse shakes his head. "Then he'd see how much of a fucking failure I've been. Actually see. And besides, I can't impose on him. A job is different."
"You can't impose on him because you love him?"
"I don't!" Mouse objects, automatically. "I don't love him. He's my brother."
"I love my brother," the man says. "In a different way than I loved my girlfriend. My fiancee. And besides, Jay's straight, and he loves you."
It takes a second for the implication to sink in, and Mouse turns red. "I don't want to fuck him."
"I never said you did." The man's smile is reassuring. "But you care about him. You depend on him. It brings you joy to talk to him. His presence makes you happy. You don't want to imagine life without him. You're giddy at the thought of moving to the same city as him. You love him, like family, because he is your family."
"That's stupid," Mouse says, because he doesn't think he can refute anything the man had just said.
The man chuckles. "It took you a long time to admit you needed Jay. Why is this so hard to admit now?"
"Because I've never loved anyone!" Mouse practically yells, heart pounding in his chest now for some reason. "Love makes you weak!"
The man shakes his head, looking sad now. "People do the strongest, hardest, most painful things for love. That sounds like the opposite, to me."
"No one... no one's ever..." He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stave off the tears he knows are coming.
"Shhh. Baby, you are loved." The man's voice is soothing, caring. "By so many people. Maybe not now, but you will be. You just need to give them the chance."
"I don't... want to..."
"It's okay to love Jay," the man says. "It's okay to let yourself be vulnerable for him. It's the first step."
"First step to wh..." Mouse starts, opening his eyes, but he trails off when he realizes the man is gone.
He's alone, again.
"Just... help me understand, man. Really. Why do you want to do that to yourself, again? Look at what it did to both of us last time."
Mouse hadn't been expecting that. When he'd opened the door and found Jay standing there, he'd been expecting another blowup, and another fight. He'd expected to have to defend his decision again and again, because as much as he knew he was doing it anyway -- what's another felony to clear his prior felonies, right? -- it would've killed him to do it without Jay's approval, and without Voight's help.
"I just..." Mouse starts, before shaking his head. "I told you already."
"Yeah, well. Everyone else might buy your bullshit, but I know you, Mouse. I know you. There's more to it than you're telling everyone, and more to it than what you've told me."
Mouse stares at Jay for a long time, trying to decide if he can bullshit his way out of it, before he sighs and stands aside.
He's never lied to Jay in his life.
"Beer?"
"Yeah," Jay says, walking in and immediately plopping himself down on the couch. "Beer."
Mouse retrieves the beer, taking his time with the bottle caps, trying to stall as much as he thinks he can get away with. Jay notices, he's sure, but doesn't call him out on it, and he's thankful for that, at least.
He sets the beers on the flimsy coffee table and takes a seat next to Jay on the couch, sipping his beer, trying to figure out where to start. He can see Jay watching him, waiting, growing evermore impatient as the seconds and minutes tick by.
"I'm gay," Mouse says, finally. It seems as good a place to start as any.
"Okay. So?" Jay says, and even though the words are reassuring, there's a guarded concern in his voice that gives Mouse pause.
He shouldn't have started with that. He knew Jay wouldn't understand.
"And I..." He squeezes his eyes shut. "I like your brother."
"Will?!" Jay seems about as shocked as Mouse expected. "You..."
"I can feel myself losing control, okay?!" Mouse says, trying his hardest not to yell, glaring at Jay now. "Do you know how many people in my life have been good to me?! Really, truly good to me?! Other than you?!"
"That doesn't mean you..." Jay starts, growling.
"It was different when we were deployed," Mouse interrupts. "We all cared about each other because we had to. We had to, Jay, because none of us would've fucking survived if we hadn't. But afterward, people only looked to me for what I could do for them. How I could benefit them. I was nothing except a body to be used, and oh right, thank you for your service."
A brief memory of his first time being fucked springs into his head, and he forces it aside. He hates how it had made him feel. He hates how it had been another reminder of how everyone made him feel.
"Mouse..." Jay says, clearly trying his hardest not to explode at him. "You can't fucking rejoin the army just because you're scared that someone might care about you."
"It's not just that," Mouse says. "That caring. That connection. I... made a difference. Kevin may not be here anymore. Joe. Phil. Rob. But I..."
"You have that at the CPD," Jay says, clearly losing patience with Mouse. "You fucking have that here."
"Do you know how much it kills me every time you head to a scene or get a call, Jay? Do you?! Do you know what it's like worrying that you're going to get shot and it's the last I'm ever going to see of you, and feeling absolutely helpless because I can't be there to cover your back?!"
Jay stares at his hands, and there's a long silence before he answers. "Yes," he says, and Mouse knows immediately that he's thinking about when Mouse had been held hostage.
Mouse shakes the thought away. "That's every day for me, Jay. Every fucking day. At least, when I'm out there, I can do every fucking thing I can until I draw my last fucking breath saving the ones I care about instead of standing by helplessly."
Jay's brow is furrowed, and he seems deep in thought. Mouse slumps back onto the couch, taking another sip of beer and focusing on the coolness of the glass in his hand. He hadn't expected the speech to take so much out of him. It's a while before Jay speaks again.
"Okay, but... Will?!"
Mouse laughs, despite himself, and despite everything. "He's hot," he says, shrugging.
Jay makes a face. "I did not need to know that, man."
"And he's kind, Jay. I... I don't know how to explain it other than that his kindness is addictive. You pulled me out of addiction last time. I can't ask you to do that again."
"I'd pull you out of addiction every damn day if it meant you'd stay," Jay growls, and Mouse feels a rush of joy at the words.
Mouse shakes his head. "No. I... I'm in a better place, now. I need to work on this for myself. And I need... I need that sense of family again. Of being useful. Of contributing. Of doing some good." He pauses. "Unless you're saying that Will..."
Jay shakes his head. "It shouldn't make a damn difference either way, because what the fuck you can't rejoin the army to run away from your problems, Mouse, but my brother's straight."
"I figured." Mouse had been expecting that answer, but it still stings, at least a little. "And I'm not running. I think, for the first time, I'm not running."
Jay takes a swig of his beer and stands. "I... I'm still not really sure I understand," he says, "but I understand more now. I just... can you just give me some time with this?"
"Don't tell Will," Mouse says, panicking despite himself. "I don't want him to..."
"I'm not a fucking snitch, Mouse," Jay says, looking disappointed that Mouse would've even considered the possibility. "It's not my secret to tell, even though... really?! Will?!"
Mouse shakes his head, a smile on his face now. "Thanks, man."
Jay shrugs, making his way toward the door. "I'll... call you. Let's grab dinner some evening."
"Works for me."
"Talk to you soon," Jay says, and then the door's shutting behind him.
Mouse stares at the door for a while before collapsing back on the couch and taking another swig of his beer.
"Will, huh?"
Mouse jumps at the voice, turning to see Will sitting next to him, drinking Jay's abandoned beer, and smiling at him.
"What the fuck..."
"Oh," Will puts down the beer and looks apologetic. "Sorry. Right. I'm not actually here. Something about your subconscious dealing with trauma by manifesting your innermost thoughts in the form of someone you care about enough to have an open and truthful conversation with."
Mouse just stares at him, the words making sense, but the meaning going over his head. "What?"
Will shrugs. "Long story short: I'm not actually Will. I'm just here to help you work through your feelings."
Mouse starts to object, but something about the way Will says it makes him believe the words. Besides, now that he's looking more closely at Will, he notices he looks older. His hair's a little more unruly than the last time he'd seen the man, his face a little more carved with years of both joy and sorrow, and his dark blue shirt showing off his...
He looks away, realizing he's staring.
"Fine. Whatever. So what are we working through?"
"How you're running again," Will says, and Mouse has to object.
"I just said I'm not running," he says, and he means it. "Maybe for the first time in my life, I'm not running."
"You're not running from your problems, in the sense that you have a solution that you think will solve them," Will says. "But you're still running from your feelings."
"Unless you're here to tell me that Will has a big gay revelation in the next few days, I don't think I really have a choice."
Will chuckles. "Would that make a difference though? If I told you that Will was secretly in love with you and would fuck you into the couch right now if you as much as demonstrated the slightest interest?"
"He what?!" Mouse says, his ears turning red and his face burning. That was not the mental image he needed right now.
"It wouldn't make a difference," Will says, serious now. "And you know it."
Mouse slumps back against the couch, closing his eyes. "I hate that you're right."
"You're not ready for that, Mouse. You haven't experienced enough true friendship. Enough true love. Enough people who would sacrifice for you -- big or small sacrifices -- without expecting anything in return. Right now, you want Will mostly because you like what he represents."
"I also like him," Mouse says, stubbornly.
Will chuckles again. "Oh, I don't doubt that. I'm just saying that maybe running is the right answer for now. Find whatever it is you're looking for in the army. And then you'll be ready for the next step."
"What's the next step?" Mouse asks, opening his eyes and turning toward Will, only to find that he's gone.
And he thinks he's left now with more questions than answers.
The second time around had both been everything he'd been expecting and nothing he'd been expecting, at the same time.
He isn't sure exactly what the thought means, but as he stares at the ceiling in the barracks, unable to sleep despite knowing he has to be up in just a few short hours, he can't help but wonder if this hadn't been what he'd needed, after all.
"Can't sleep?"
He almost jumps before turning to see a man standing next to his cot, smiling at him in the darkness. He's tall, handsome, and...
"Will?!"
Will shakes his head, sitting gently on the edge of Mouse's cot. "I'm not really Will. Think of me as a part of your subconscious that you can have a direct conversation with."
Mouse isn't sure what the man's going on about, but he supposes it makes more sense than Will having flown halfway around the world to sneak into an army barracks to talk to him.
"Fine. Whatever. What am I supposed to talk to you about?"
"Start with what's on your mind now. Why isn't this what you wanted?"
Mouse hesitates. "It's not not what I wanted."
He waits for Will to say something, but Will just smiles at him, waiting for him to continue.
"Last time, it was... it was life or death, every day. No time to think. All I could do was act. Every night, I'd fall into bed exhausted and pass out immediately. It meant I didn't have to think. Have to worry. Have to... plan. It was a relief from my life before that, where I was always having to worry and plan my next steps because the only constant in my life was myself."
"You didn't have to plan until they blew up your convoy," Will says, and Mouse squeezes his eyes shut.
"Yeah. Then, all of a sudden, there was nothing to do but plan. Again. We were discharged, but... then what? Where was I going to go? What was I going to do?"
"And you're worried about that again?" Will's voice is understanding, caring, and Mouse feels more at ease from it. "It's quieter this time, so you have time to worry about future plans, and what comes after this tour?"
"Maybe," Mouse says. "And I'm worried about Jay." Mouse isn't sure where that part came from.
"I thought deployment was supposed to help you worry less about Jay," Will says.
Mouse shrugs. "It did, kind of. But I'm still... worrying about him. I can't call him whenever I want... need... want. I can't check that he's doing okay whenever I start worrying about him. And even now, even though we're apart, he's still... my family. More than... more than anyone here."
He feels bad as he vaguely gestures in the direction of the fellow men and women asleep around him. They're supposed to be the only thing that matters. He's here to make them the only thing that mattered.
"You weren't only running from your feelings for Will," Will says, a knowing smile. "You were running from your feelings for Jay, too. I know, I know. They're different feelings."
Mouse isn't quite sure what to say to that, just making a vague humming noise as he settles back into his cot again.
"Family is what you make it," Will says, speaking up again after a while. "I think what's happened is that you're finally realizing that. You didn't feel like your comrades were your family the first time because of war. They were your family because you made them your family despite the war."
"And I can make everyone here my family again," Mouse says, even though the statement feels forced to him.
Will chuckles. "Oh, I'm sure you can. You're an amazing human, Mouse, and people will like you wherever you go. But last time was the first time in your life that you'd had that feeling -- the first time you felt like you belonged, and the first time you had people in your life that you could rely on. You thought this was the only way to get that feeling back. I think you realize now that it isn't. And you already know it's not the only way to make a difference. You can make a difference in people's lives no matter what you choose to do with yours."
"So what... I should desert and get court-martialed?" Mouse doesn't like the thought of abandoning his responsibilities here.
"No," Will says, sounding almost offended at the suggestion. "Your tour is up in about a year. You should finish it, because if Mouse is anything, he's loyal and responsible."
"Mouse wasn't always loyal and responsible," Mouse mutters, thinking about his childhood.
"Mouse has grown into a loyal and responsible man," Will says, admiration in his voice that makes Mouse blush. "But afterward, leave the army. Stop running from making future plans just because you're scared of what they might entail. Seek that feeling of family and belonging elsewhere."
"Where?" Mouse asks, and when Will doesn't respond, he looks up to find Will's disappeared.
He isn't sure he likes the uneasy feeling that's suddenly settled over him.
"Mouse, I'm... I'm gonna..."
Mouse fumbles until he finds Will's mouth, hands tangling in Will's hair, kissing him sloppily and swallowing Will's moan as he finds completion, sharing gentler kisses as he brings them both down from their highs.
Will runs to the bathroom to clean up afterward, leaving Mouse by himself in bed, feeling warm and content -- and pleasantly sore -- like his brain and the world are calm and everything makes sense, for once.
"You love him, don't you?"
"What the..." Mouse instinctively pulls the sheet to cover himself before looking over to see Will sitting in a chair by the bed, fully dressed in a dark blue long-sleeve shirt and jeans. "What... what kind of a joke is this?!"
"Sorry," Will says, standing and looking apologetic. "Uh. I'm a figment of your imagination here to talk with you. I'm not actually Will, and I'm not actually here."
It's absurd, but for some reason Mouse believes it, relaxing a little as not-Will moves and sits on the edge of the bed, next to him. Neither of them says anything for a bit.
"If you're here to talk with me, then talk," Mouse says, growing impatient. He's worried Will -- the real Will, naked and in the bathroom -- will return any minute, although he figures none of this is really happening anyway, so he probably had as much time as he needed.
Not-Will smiles at him with the smile that always makes Mouse weak. "Sure. I asked whether you love him."
"It's too early for love," Mouse says, almost offended at the question. "It's only been a couple months. This is the first time he's visited me."
"That sounds like an excuse."
Mouse glares at the man. "If you're a figment of my imagination, aren't you supposed to be agreeing with me?"
"Since when have you not disagreed with yourself in your head, endlessly?"
Mouse suppose he has a point.
"I think you're afraid of loving him," not-Will says, continuing to push the subject.
"I think you should mind your own business," Mouse says.
Not-Will laughs. "You know you've never told Will that you love him? And no, at the point when you believe you're about to die doesn't count."
"Um," Mouse says, wishing his brain would be a little less argumentative and vague, at the moment. "I know I haven't? Because I don't? Because we've only been dating for two months?"
"What are you so afraid of?" not-Will asks instead of addressing Mouse's objection. "No snarky responses this time. The truth, Mouse."
Mouse makes himself really consider the question. He hadn't been lying -- it really hadn't been long enough -- but he could see himself falling in love with Will one day. Except...
"If I tell him I love him, then it's final," he says, squeezing his eyes shut, and suddenly feeling cold and alone in the bed. "It's..."
"What do you mean 'final'?" not-Will presses.
Mouse thinks for a bit before looking over at not-Will. "I love Jay," he says, and not-Will grins, and Mouse scowls. "Fuck you, not like that."
"I didn't say anything," not-Will says, his eyes still twinkling. "But sure. You love Jay like a brother. You said that before."
"I've never said that in my life," Mouse objects. "But I love Jay, and I'm afraid every day of losing him because of his job. Still afraid, every day. Love is... terrifying. It makes you need someone in a way where you don't think could live without them again."
"Sounds like love," not-Will agrees.
"Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen," Mouse says. "What happens when Will finally realizes how broken I still am? How wrong for him I am? How..."
"Those insecurities are very unlike you, Mouse," not-Will says, and Mouse scowls at him again.
"Are you just going to interrupt me constantly?"
Not-Will stands, and looks apologetic. "Sorry. Please continue."
"I... know I'll never lose Jay. I mean, I know he'll never choose to leave me, at least. We've been through too much shit together and literally saved each other so many times that I don't think either of us would know what to do without each other. But Will..." He squeezes his eyes shut again, not wanting to think about Will leaving him. "Will can decide he's had enough of me. Will can leave. It doesn't matter if we've been together for years. It doesn't matter if we get married. Will can leave, and if I love him, then I... I won't know what to do when he does."
"If you don't make sure he knows how you feel about him, he will leave," not-Will says, and Mouse hates how much he knows the words are true. "Maybe not now, and maybe not years from now, but eventually."
"But how..."
"Open yourself up to him," not-Will says. "Let him in. Love is scary, but maybe he's worth being brave for."
Mouse opens his eyes and mouth to object, but not-Will's gone, and Will's walking back from the bathroom with a washcloth, looking at Mouse with such affection that it hurts.
"Greg," Mouse says, before he can think better of it.
Will nods, but clearly not understanding, as he hands Mouse the washcloth. "What about it?"
"I... I want you call me Greg. Instead of Mouse. If that... if that's okay." In truth, he isn't sure that he's okay with it, himself, but it feels right.
At least, it feels like a start.
Will's smile grows bigger, and he bends down and gives Mouse a kiss that leaves him breathless, and Mouse knows that he understands.
"Yeah," Will says, when they break. "Yeah. That's more than okay. Greg."
Mouse loves the way it makes him feel.
The first thing he hears is a beeping. Slow. Rhythmic. Soothing, somehow.
The second is a gentle snoring. Familiar. Comforting, somehow.
Mouse opens his eyes, blinking against the harsh light that immediately assaults them. He aches in places he didn't know he could ache. He quickly scans the room, which turns out to be a hospital room -- what was he doing in a hospital room? -- until his gaze settles on his husband, slumped over in a large chair, dozing off and snoring adorably.
"Will?"
His voice is quieter than he expected, but it's enough. Will's eyes flutter open, and he blinks once, before jumping to his feet, concern on his face.
"Oh thank god. Greg..."
Mouse frowns, and that seems to have been the wrong thing to do, because Will stops in his tracks, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slowly approaching the bed.
Right. Mouse is in a hospital bed. Why was he in a hospital bed?
"Do you know your name?"
"Yeah. I'm Mouse."
Will nods. "What do you remember?"
Mouse looks up at Will, handsome even through the concern etched into every line on his face. Mouse hopes Will isn't concerned because of him, although given the surroundings...
"We're in... Med?" Mouse tries. "In Chicago."
Will nods again, but his expression doesn't change. "Anything else?"
Mouse thinks. He feels like there's something he should remember. Something just gnawing at the back of his head. But it doesn't come, and he shakes his head. "No?"
Will sighs, running a hand through his hair. "You were shot."
The reminder brings everything rushing back. The trip. The ED visit. The shooter. And...
"Owen!" Mouse says, trying to sit up and grimacing as he's suddenly wracked with pain.
Will's next to him in a flash, hands gently, but firmly, on his shoulders and forcing him back down. "No no no. No sitting up. Doctor's orders."
Mouse doesn't resist, and can't help but feel disappointed when Will's hands disappear from his shoulders to press a button next to the bed. He wants to feel Will's hands on him again. "You mean husband's orders?"
"Oh thank god," Will says, relief clearly washing over his face. "I thought you didn't..." Then he stops himself, and smiles. "Well, you married a doctor, so doctor's orders it is. In addition to the fact that your actual doctor doesn't want you sitting up unassisted, yet."
"Owen?" Mouse asks again, now that Will seems less concerned about him. "Is he okay?"
"Owen's fine, baby," Will says, stepping aside as a nurse that Mouse doesn't recognize rushes into the room. "He's back in Seattle. You did good, except for the fact that you..." he trails off, and shakes his head.
"How long?"
Will looks concerned again, and Mouse holds out his hand, which Will reluctantly takes. The feeling of his husband's hand on his is everything, right now.
"Two weeks," Will says, eventually, watching the monitors as the nurse seems to be taking measurements. "You've been out for two weeks."
"Jesus." Mouse thinks that explains the aches he's feeling.
In addition to having been shot in the chest, of course.
The nurse whispers something to Will before disappearing, but it doesn't seem to be anything concerning, because Will just nods and watches her leave. Mouse closes his eyes, finding the darkness comforting, for some reason.
"You can go back to sleep," Will says, his voice reassuring, his hand moving to stroke Mouse's hair. "I'll be here when you wake up again."
Mouse makes a contented noise and he leans as much as he can into the touch. He can imagine Will smiling at it.
"That... that sounds good."
And then he's out again.
When Mouse wakes up again, it's to the sound of bickering.
"Like I said: He survived two fucking tours. There's no way a fucking tweaker would've been what did him in."
"It was cocaine, Jay. Not meth."
"Either way, it's like I was telling you all along: Mouse is better than a fucking gunshot wound through the chest."
"Mouse is regretting being shot through the chest," Mouse says, opening his eyes again, feeling amused when Will and Jay immediately turn toward him. Will looks apologetic. Jay looks... proud?
"Your husband was worried for nothing," Jay says, a small smirk on his face as he gives Mouse a gentle punch on the shoulder. "I never doubted for a second that you'd pull through."
"Yes, that's why you immediately jumped on the next plane when I called you," Will says, rolling his eyes and moving between Jay and Mouse, as if to protect him from Jay's punches.
"I can worry about him without assuming the worst, you know!" Jay insists.
"I heard you when you were at his bedside," Will says, as Jay turns red. "You were cursing at him for needing to be the hero, and saying you'd kill him if he didn't make it."
"I should report you to the board for violating patient-visitor confidentiality," Jay mutters under his breath, as Will takes Mouse's hand in his. Mouse squeezes, and Will smiles at it.
"Thank you for being here, Jay," Mouse says, and Jay's expression immediately grows soft.
"Yeah, well. Someone had to be here to get your husband through his clearly unfounded worst fears. You owe me."
Mouse thinks he owes Jay a million times over, by now. But he just nods, thankful to be surrounded by so much love, and closes his eyes again.
It's a couple more weeks until Mouse and Will make it home, and he waves off Will's attempts to help him up the stairs. It isn't until they're lying in bed together, Will's hand moving gently through Mouse's hair, that he feels truly at ease again.
"You were there for me," Mouse says, looking up at Will with love.
Will's hand stops moving, concern on his face now. "Of course I was. Were you... worried that I wouldn't be?"
Mouse shakes his head. "No. I mean... I was dreaming. Or something. And you were there for me, in my head."
"Oh." The hand starts moving again, and Will smiles as Mouse leans into the motion and closes his eyes, content. "In what way?"
Mouse isn't sure why the experiences he'd had while unconscious are only coming back now, but he runs through the memories in his head, remembering how Will had been -- or at least had represented -- the voice he needed at any given point. How he can see now how every moment in his past had brought him to this moment, in their home together. How they'd helped him be ready for this moment.
"I love you, Will," he says, instead of answering the question. He isn't afraid to say it anymore.
The hand stops for moment, then starts again, and he knows Will is grinning. "I know, baby. And I love you too."