Truth to Tell
Part 2
Robin had wandered into his life on a Friday totally unlike the one Tristan had just endured. After what seemed like forever working on back-to-back projects, he had finally managed to get his head above water and spent the afternoon clearing his desk. Job jackets were closed and correspondence filed. With rapid efficiency, Tristan had read, answered, forwarded or deleted the seventy-four e-mails which had accumulated in five days' time. Moreover he had dismissed Sarah, his hardworking and long-suffering assistant, at four o'clock and ordered her to stay home on Saturday morning. In the quiet that ensued with the en-masse departure of staff at five, he had returned six phone calls and remembered to send his parents flowers and a bottle of champagne for their anniversary the following Tuesday. With all that accomplished, Tristan had dismissed himself and left the office well before his usual hour of nine, even stopping to have a pint on the way home and staying for a round of darts.
Ducking around a couple whom, for reasons unclear to anyone but themselves, had elected to stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk, Tristan decided to follow the path through the park. Most people avoided it after dark, but a stint in the Royal Marines had added muscle to his six-foot four-inch frame and made him reasonably confident in his ability to protect himself. Taking a deep breath, he slowed his usually brisk walk to a stroll. After three days of constant, drenching rain, the clouds had finally broken up in late afternoon and were now scudding across the sky. The pavement had dried except for the occasional puddle, and the air hinted at the long-awaited spring.
Passing under a lamp, he checked his watch. Quarter past nine. And all's well, he thought. He had already eaten, courtesy of the celebratory spread laid out in the conference room. After a year of dogged pursuit and negotiation, Finch Advertising PLC had signed a leading tourist agency to its roster of clients. Tristan had had little to do with it, but he had rejoiced along with the rest of the firm. Every department had been involved in the effort, and everyone knew at least one person who had dedicated endless hours to it.
Coming out of the park, he stopped dead. Halfway down the block, nearly in front of his building, a police car sat with lights flashing. He glanced up, not surprised to find a number of his neighbours watching from the safety of their homes. Squinting against the glare of the lights, he picked out three figures, two wearing uniforms and the third a rumpled suit.
"...Who'd you think you are? You have no bloody right!" an irate voice carried to him. "I'm not bothering anyone, so push off!"
He could hear a response, but the words were indistinct. He was reasonably certain, though, that there would be no pushing off in the near future. One of the policemen stepped forward and put a hand on the irate man's arm, trying to draw him to the waiting car. Shaking off his hold, the man chose to swing at him.
With a speed that surprised Tristan, the policeman grabbed the man's arm as it came toward him, twisted it and forced him down to the sidewalk. The second officer handcuffed the man's hands behind him and dragged him to his feet. The man continued to struggle as they forced him into the back of the car and slammed the door.
Letting go the breath he had not known he had been holding, Tristan waited until the car disappeared down the street before continuing on. Above him, drapes dropped back into place as people realised the show had ended.
As he dug in his pocket for his keys, Tristan froze, hearing a rustling amongst the dustbins lined up neatly beneath the steps. "Who's there?" he demanded.
Silence, then the sound of a heel dragging over cement.
Setting his briefcase down on the steps, Tristan opened the gate. He automatically ducked his head as he stepped into the small enclosure. "Come along, I know someone is here. Show yourself."
He stepped closer and just made out a pair of frightened eyes peering at him from the shadows. Thinking to grab the boy's arm, he leaned down. "Out with you now."
The boy tried pulling farther away, although his back was already firmly against the foundation. His eyes were bright with panic as he shoved Tristan's hand away. "Go away!"
Tristan couched down so they were more of a height, then raised his hands in an effort to calm him. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The boy jammed himself into a corner and drew his legs up to his chest. "Please leave me alone!" he begged as a cough ripped through his lungs.
Reflex alone brought Tristan's hand up toward the dirty face, but the boy threw his arms up to block his touch even as he continued hacking, barely able to draw breath. When the bout ended, he laid his head back and gasped for air.
"Please come out so we can find help for you."
"He'll find me if I do."
"Who?" Tristan asked, even as his mind supplied the answer. "It's that man, isn't it? The one in the rumpled suit."
"I've got to go before he comes back." The boy staggered to his feet and nearly fell.
Grabbing his arms, Tristan was stunned at the heat pouring from the thin frame. "You're ill. Let me take you to Casualty."
The boy shook his head as he pulled frantically against Tristan's hold. "I've got to get away from here. I can't let him find me."
"Calm down. He won't be back tonight," Tristan told him. "You haven't anything to worry about."
The coughing began again, and the boy gripped Tristan's arm in an effort to steady himself. When the fit passed, he sighed quietly, and Tristan watched his eyes roll back in his head. He dropped one broad shoulder and caught the sagging form in a fireman's carry. Steadying his burden, he left the small enclosure and climbed the front steps, snagging his briefcase on the way.
He had to shift his unconscious charge to get his keys from his pocket, but negotiated the front stairs and his door without smacking the boy's head against anything. Setting him down on the sofa, Tristan reached for the phone and dialled. It rang twice before a man answered.
"Geoff, it's Tris."
"Tris! How are you?"
"I'm fine, but..." He looked at the pale face liberally streaked with dirt, sweat and a growth of beard. The lamp illuminated a darkening bruise across one cheekbone and another along his jaw. "Look, can you come down? I've someone here who isn't well."
"I'm on my way."
Disconnecting, Tristan divested the boy of the rain-soaked jacket he wore. That in and of itself was a surprise. It bore a designer label and looked new. Hanging it on a hook beside his own coat, Tristan checked the pockets. He found a half-empty package of cigarettes and a crumpled prescription written two days earlier for one Robin Duncan. He binned the first and tucked the second into his pocket.
Geoff Saunders did not bother knocking before coming in, small black bag in hand. He and Tristan had been in and out of each other's flats since Tristan had moved in. Both the sons of career military men, they had spent their lives following their fathers to various bases and ports around the world. That nomadic existence had instantly made a foundation for friendship. Although Geoff's schedule as a casualty nurse at the local hospital and Tristan's hours on end at the office sometimes made it difficult to see each other, they had dinner at least once a month.
"Did I wake you?" Tristan asked, taking in the bleary brown eyes and tousled blond hair.
"I was on duty this morning at 6:00 and wasn't off my feet until 7:00 tonight. I fell asleep as soon as I came through the door," Geoff said, sitting down on the coffee table beside the sofa. "And who is this?"
Tristan handed him the prescription. "I found him under the front steps with the dustbins."
Geoff smiled as he took it. "I've lived here for ten years, and the only thing I've found down there was a five pound note." A frown creased his forehead. "Well, if this is indeed Robin, I think you have a sick lad on your hands."
"What is it?"
"Can you sit him up for me?" Geoff asked as he put the tips of his stethoscope in his ears and warmed the bell in his hand. "He's soaked to the skin, isn't he?"
Tristan knelt down and drew the limp figure forward so his head lay against Tristan's shoulder. With Geoff's help, he pulled the wet t-shirt off. Geoff listened to his heart for a moment, then his lungs. He moved the stethoscope from place to place on the boy's back, and Tristan did not like the way he shook his head.
Reaching into his bag, Geoff drew out an ear thermometer. With the offhand skill born of long habit, he inserted into the boy's ear and hit the button. "All right," he said and Tristan settled the boy back against the arm of the sofa.
"Just as the prescription says, it's bronchitis. His lungs are clogged, and he's running a fever. I think a trip to hospital might be in order."
Tristan shook his head. "I suggested that, and he refused — panicked in fact. I think he'd run at the first opportunity."
"I don't think he'll be running anywhere soon. He's very ill and obviously exhausted. Shall I ring for an ambulance?"
Pragmatic, level-headed, evaluate-every-eventuality Tristan Averill was thoroughly amazed to hear himself say firmly, "No."
Geoff turned from the phone. "Are you certain? You don't even know him, Tris."
Remembering the boy's panic, Tristan could not send him away. "We'll be fine. Just tell me what I should do."
Geoff sighed. "Look, let me make a couple of phone calls and have this prescription filled. After that, we'll talk about what we're to do, all right?"
Their patient stirred and opened his eyes. For a moment, he lay still, simply taking in his surroundings. A deep crease appeared between his brows as his eyes moved around the room, easing a bit when he found Tristan.
"Feeling any better?" Tristan asked.
"Wh-where am I?"
"My flat. You'll be safe here. I'm Tristan Averill, by the way, and this is Geoff Saunders."
The boy nodded a greeting as another round of coughing ripped through him. When it was over, he sagged against the sofa.
Geoff took the glass of water Tristan gave him and lifted the boy so he could sip it. "Slowly," he cautioned. "Are you Robin?"
"Yes, Robin Duncan." He shifted on the sofa and dug his wallet out of his back pocket. "Here." He tossed it to Tristan who put it on the table without inspecting the contents.
"Is there someone we should ring?" Geoff asked. "Is someone expecting you?"
"No. Just give me a minute to catch my breath, and I'll go." Swinging his legs off the sofa brought on another fit of coughing. Robin sagged back when it was over, his face even paler and his lips faintly blue.
"Stay here for now," Geoff advised him. "You're in no fit condition to go anywhere."
"No, I'm —"
Putting a hand on Robin's shoulder, Tristan leaned over him, knowing his height was intimidating at this angle. "You'll stay here."
"But —"
"Don't argue," Tristan told him. As he swung Robin's legs back up onto the sofa, he saw a seed of defiance in the blue-grey eyes and cupped the strong jaw with his hand. "You're not leaving here tonight. Do you understand?"
Pulling away from his touch, Robin crossed his arms over his chest and turned his face away. Within minutes, he was asleep with his head resting against the back of the sofa. His breathing was loud and ragged, and he looked sicker than he had fifteen minutes earlier.
Tristan spent the weekend battling the fever and trying to calm the cough. Geoff contacted the doctor whose name appeared on the prescription and found out little. Robin had gone to a walk-in centre complaining of pain in his chest. The doctor had seen him that once, not before or since. While Geoff rang a GP friend at home for advice, Tristan wrestled off the rest of Robin's wet clothes and dressed him in some comfortable old sweats he found in his bottom drawer. He had to fold the cuffs back several times but they were warm and soft. Taking the pillows from his bed, Tristan propped up Robin on the sofa before covering him with a blanket.
Through the long night and the day that followed, Robin woke only when bidden and voiced no complaints. He took the medication without fuss and dutifully tried to swallow whatever Tristan held to his mouth until his eyes drifted close.
Geoff went back on duty Saturday afternoon despite his protest that he would call out. Tristan spent his time in the armchair, his long legs stretched out on the coffee table. He slept when he could, but it was not restful. The harshness of Robin's breathing and the continued coughing jags kept him from deep sleep. He managed an hour when Geoff returned from the hospital and ordered him to lie down in his room. The sound of Robin's feeble protests when Geoff woke him for the next round of medicine and fluids brought Tristan fully awake and on his feet in seconds. Hushing Robin's fretting took only a few words, but he refused to rest after that, afraid of Robin waking and not finding him.
Early Sunday afternoon, Robin's fever broke. Tristan stripped the perspiration-soaked clothing off and helped him dress in a set of freshly laundered scrubs Geoff had contributed. The fit was better than it had been with Tristan's clothes, but they were still too big. Tristan coaxed him to swallow yet another bowl of broth. Throughout Robin kept up a steady stream of apologies in a voice made rough from coughing, spinning himself up in the process despite Tristan's continued reassurances. Tears finally spilled when he could not manage another mouthful of broth. With the tears came another round of racking coughs.
"S-sorry..." he choked out.
Tristan grabbed his upper arm and pulled. With Robin lying half across his lap, he gave him three sharp smacks on the bottom. "That is enough, young man," he snapped. "You're working yourself into a state, and I won't have it."
The smacks had not hurt Robin as much as they startled him. Huge blue-grey eyes stared up at Tristan while he rubbed away the sting and considered his options.
"Don't even think of pitching a fit, or we will have a much more serious discussion," Tristan told him.
A hard swallow and a shake of the head assured him Robin knew how vulnerable his bottom was in this position.
"Now I want you to calm down and catch your breath." When he started to move him back onto the sofa, Robin resisted. Wrapping his arms around Tristan's waist, he tried to curl up around him. Not certain he could breath at all well in that position, Tristan raised him to a sitting position. With Robin's face buried in his chest, Tristan rubbed his back until he felt him relax into sleep. He shifted onto the sofa and wrapped the blanket around Robin before dropping a kiss onto his badly tousled hair.
Geoff paused as he let himself in half an hour later. He considered the sight before him as he dropped his keys on the table and then nodded as if answering a question Tristan could not hear.
"What?" Tristan asked quietly.
Geoff gestured toward Robin as he unloaded the groceries he had brought. "I wondered how long it would take you. And I must say, you surprised me. I thought it would take my doing a multimedia presentation complete with question-and-answer period before you figured out that he needs you, and you most assuredly need him."
"I do?"
"Face it, Tris, spending upwards of sixty hours in the office each week isn't healthy. You need something more in your life, and he —" Geoff nodded to Robin. "— is it."
Tristan studied the figure on his lap and then grinned at Geoff. "Does that mean there won't be a multimedia presentation?" he queried.
"No need. If you'd like, we can jump right to the questions and answers."
Tristan shook his head. "I think I'll enjoy working those out with Robin."
"Well, the offer remains open." Geoff slid a pan into the oven and straightened up.
"Thanks," Tristan said after a moment.
Geoff handed him a glass of wine. "It's only lasagna from that little market around the corner and wine left from Christmas."
Tristan held up his glass, clinking it lightly against Geoff's. "Just what I need."
Part 3
Ducking around a couple whom, for reasons unclear to anyone but themselves, had elected to stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk, Tristan decided to follow the path through the park. Most people avoided it after dark, but a stint in the Royal Marines had added muscle to his six-foot four-inch frame and made him reasonably confident in his ability to protect himself. Taking a deep breath, he slowed his usually brisk walk to a stroll. After three days of constant, drenching rain, the clouds had finally broken up in late afternoon and were now scudding across the sky. The pavement had dried except for the occasional puddle, and the air hinted at the long-awaited spring.
Passing under a lamp, he checked his watch. Quarter past nine. And all's well, he thought. He had already eaten, courtesy of the celebratory spread laid out in the conference room. After a year of dogged pursuit and negotiation, Finch Advertising PLC had signed a leading tourist agency to its roster of clients. Tristan had had little to do with it, but he had rejoiced along with the rest of the firm. Every department had been involved in the effort, and everyone knew at least one person who had dedicated endless hours to it.
Coming out of the park, he stopped dead. Halfway down the block, nearly in front of his building, a police car sat with lights flashing. He glanced up, not surprised to find a number of his neighbours watching from the safety of their homes. Squinting against the glare of the lights, he picked out three figures, two wearing uniforms and the third a rumpled suit.
"...Who'd you think you are? You have no bloody right!" an irate voice carried to him. "I'm not bothering anyone, so push off!"
He could hear a response, but the words were indistinct. He was reasonably certain, though, that there would be no pushing off in the near future. One of the policemen stepped forward and put a hand on the irate man's arm, trying to draw him to the waiting car. Shaking off his hold, the man chose to swing at him.
With a speed that surprised Tristan, the policeman grabbed the man's arm as it came toward him, twisted it and forced him down to the sidewalk. The second officer handcuffed the man's hands behind him and dragged him to his feet. The man continued to struggle as they forced him into the back of the car and slammed the door.
Letting go the breath he had not known he had been holding, Tristan waited until the car disappeared down the street before continuing on. Above him, drapes dropped back into place as people realised the show had ended.
As he dug in his pocket for his keys, Tristan froze, hearing a rustling amongst the dustbins lined up neatly beneath the steps. "Who's there?" he demanded.
Silence, then the sound of a heel dragging over cement.
Setting his briefcase down on the steps, Tristan opened the gate. He automatically ducked his head as he stepped into the small enclosure. "Come along, I know someone is here. Show yourself."
He stepped closer and just made out a pair of frightened eyes peering at him from the shadows. Thinking to grab the boy's arm, he leaned down. "Out with you now."
The boy tried pulling farther away, although his back was already firmly against the foundation. His eyes were bright with panic as he shoved Tristan's hand away. "Go away!"
Tristan couched down so they were more of a height, then raised his hands in an effort to calm him. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The boy jammed himself into a corner and drew his legs up to his chest. "Please leave me alone!" he begged as a cough ripped through his lungs.
Reflex alone brought Tristan's hand up toward the dirty face, but the boy threw his arms up to block his touch even as he continued hacking, barely able to draw breath. When the bout ended, he laid his head back and gasped for air.
"Please come out so we can find help for you."
"He'll find me if I do."
"Who?" Tristan asked, even as his mind supplied the answer. "It's that man, isn't it? The one in the rumpled suit."
"I've got to go before he comes back." The boy staggered to his feet and nearly fell.
Grabbing his arms, Tristan was stunned at the heat pouring from the thin frame. "You're ill. Let me take you to Casualty."
The boy shook his head as he pulled frantically against Tristan's hold. "I've got to get away from here. I can't let him find me."
"Calm down. He won't be back tonight," Tristan told him. "You haven't anything to worry about."
The coughing began again, and the boy gripped Tristan's arm in an effort to steady himself. When the fit passed, he sighed quietly, and Tristan watched his eyes roll back in his head. He dropped one broad shoulder and caught the sagging form in a fireman's carry. Steadying his burden, he left the small enclosure and climbed the front steps, snagging his briefcase on the way.
He had to shift his unconscious charge to get his keys from his pocket, but negotiated the front stairs and his door without smacking the boy's head against anything. Setting him down on the sofa, Tristan reached for the phone and dialled. It rang twice before a man answered.
"Geoff, it's Tris."
"Tris! How are you?"
"I'm fine, but..." He looked at the pale face liberally streaked with dirt, sweat and a growth of beard. The lamp illuminated a darkening bruise across one cheekbone and another along his jaw. "Look, can you come down? I've someone here who isn't well."
"I'm on my way."
Disconnecting, Tristan divested the boy of the rain-soaked jacket he wore. That in and of itself was a surprise. It bore a designer label and looked new. Hanging it on a hook beside his own coat, Tristan checked the pockets. He found a half-empty package of cigarettes and a crumpled prescription written two days earlier for one Robin Duncan. He binned the first and tucked the second into his pocket.
Geoff Saunders did not bother knocking before coming in, small black bag in hand. He and Tristan had been in and out of each other's flats since Tristan had moved in. Both the sons of career military men, they had spent their lives following their fathers to various bases and ports around the world. That nomadic existence had instantly made a foundation for friendship. Although Geoff's schedule as a casualty nurse at the local hospital and Tristan's hours on end at the office sometimes made it difficult to see each other, they had dinner at least once a month.
"Did I wake you?" Tristan asked, taking in the bleary brown eyes and tousled blond hair.
"I was on duty this morning at 6:00 and wasn't off my feet until 7:00 tonight. I fell asleep as soon as I came through the door," Geoff said, sitting down on the coffee table beside the sofa. "And who is this?"
Tristan handed him the prescription. "I found him under the front steps with the dustbins."
Geoff smiled as he took it. "I've lived here for ten years, and the only thing I've found down there was a five pound note." A frown creased his forehead. "Well, if this is indeed Robin, I think you have a sick lad on your hands."
"What is it?"
"Can you sit him up for me?" Geoff asked as he put the tips of his stethoscope in his ears and warmed the bell in his hand. "He's soaked to the skin, isn't he?"
Tristan knelt down and drew the limp figure forward so his head lay against Tristan's shoulder. With Geoff's help, he pulled the wet t-shirt off. Geoff listened to his heart for a moment, then his lungs. He moved the stethoscope from place to place on the boy's back, and Tristan did not like the way he shook his head.
Reaching into his bag, Geoff drew out an ear thermometer. With the offhand skill born of long habit, he inserted into the boy's ear and hit the button. "All right," he said and Tristan settled the boy back against the arm of the sofa.
"Just as the prescription says, it's bronchitis. His lungs are clogged, and he's running a fever. I think a trip to hospital might be in order."
Tristan shook his head. "I suggested that, and he refused — panicked in fact. I think he'd run at the first opportunity."
"I don't think he'll be running anywhere soon. He's very ill and obviously exhausted. Shall I ring for an ambulance?"
Pragmatic, level-headed, evaluate-every-eventuality Tristan Averill was thoroughly amazed to hear himself say firmly, "No."
Geoff turned from the phone. "Are you certain? You don't even know him, Tris."
Remembering the boy's panic, Tristan could not send him away. "We'll be fine. Just tell me what I should do."
Geoff sighed. "Look, let me make a couple of phone calls and have this prescription filled. After that, we'll talk about what we're to do, all right?"
Their patient stirred and opened his eyes. For a moment, he lay still, simply taking in his surroundings. A deep crease appeared between his brows as his eyes moved around the room, easing a bit when he found Tristan.
"Feeling any better?" Tristan asked.
"Wh-where am I?"
"My flat. You'll be safe here. I'm Tristan Averill, by the way, and this is Geoff Saunders."
The boy nodded a greeting as another round of coughing ripped through him. When it was over, he sagged against the sofa.
Geoff took the glass of water Tristan gave him and lifted the boy so he could sip it. "Slowly," he cautioned. "Are you Robin?"
"Yes, Robin Duncan." He shifted on the sofa and dug his wallet out of his back pocket. "Here." He tossed it to Tristan who put it on the table without inspecting the contents.
"Is there someone we should ring?" Geoff asked. "Is someone expecting you?"
"No. Just give me a minute to catch my breath, and I'll go." Swinging his legs off the sofa brought on another fit of coughing. Robin sagged back when it was over, his face even paler and his lips faintly blue.
"Stay here for now," Geoff advised him. "You're in no fit condition to go anywhere."
"No, I'm —"
Putting a hand on Robin's shoulder, Tristan leaned over him, knowing his height was intimidating at this angle. "You'll stay here."
"But —"
"Don't argue," Tristan told him. As he swung Robin's legs back up onto the sofa, he saw a seed of defiance in the blue-grey eyes and cupped the strong jaw with his hand. "You're not leaving here tonight. Do you understand?"
Pulling away from his touch, Robin crossed his arms over his chest and turned his face away. Within minutes, he was asleep with his head resting against the back of the sofa. His breathing was loud and ragged, and he looked sicker than he had fifteen minutes earlier.
Tristan spent the weekend battling the fever and trying to calm the cough. Geoff contacted the doctor whose name appeared on the prescription and found out little. Robin had gone to a walk-in centre complaining of pain in his chest. The doctor had seen him that once, not before or since. While Geoff rang a GP friend at home for advice, Tristan wrestled off the rest of Robin's wet clothes and dressed him in some comfortable old sweats he found in his bottom drawer. He had to fold the cuffs back several times but they were warm and soft. Taking the pillows from his bed, Tristan propped up Robin on the sofa before covering him with a blanket.
Through the long night and the day that followed, Robin woke only when bidden and voiced no complaints. He took the medication without fuss and dutifully tried to swallow whatever Tristan held to his mouth until his eyes drifted close.
Geoff went back on duty Saturday afternoon despite his protest that he would call out. Tristan spent his time in the armchair, his long legs stretched out on the coffee table. He slept when he could, but it was not restful. The harshness of Robin's breathing and the continued coughing jags kept him from deep sleep. He managed an hour when Geoff returned from the hospital and ordered him to lie down in his room. The sound of Robin's feeble protests when Geoff woke him for the next round of medicine and fluids brought Tristan fully awake and on his feet in seconds. Hushing Robin's fretting took only a few words, but he refused to rest after that, afraid of Robin waking and not finding him.
Early Sunday afternoon, Robin's fever broke. Tristan stripped the perspiration-soaked clothing off and helped him dress in a set of freshly laundered scrubs Geoff had contributed. The fit was better than it had been with Tristan's clothes, but they were still too big. Tristan coaxed him to swallow yet another bowl of broth. Throughout Robin kept up a steady stream of apologies in a voice made rough from coughing, spinning himself up in the process despite Tristan's continued reassurances. Tears finally spilled when he could not manage another mouthful of broth. With the tears came another round of racking coughs.
"S-sorry..." he choked out.
Tristan grabbed his upper arm and pulled. With Robin lying half across his lap, he gave him three sharp smacks on the bottom. "That is enough, young man," he snapped. "You're working yourself into a state, and I won't have it."
The smacks had not hurt Robin as much as they startled him. Huge blue-grey eyes stared up at Tristan while he rubbed away the sting and considered his options.
"Don't even think of pitching a fit, or we will have a much more serious discussion," Tristan told him.
A hard swallow and a shake of the head assured him Robin knew how vulnerable his bottom was in this position.
"Now I want you to calm down and catch your breath." When he started to move him back onto the sofa, Robin resisted. Wrapping his arms around Tristan's waist, he tried to curl up around him. Not certain he could breath at all well in that position, Tristan raised him to a sitting position. With Robin's face buried in his chest, Tristan rubbed his back until he felt him relax into sleep. He shifted onto the sofa and wrapped the blanket around Robin before dropping a kiss onto his badly tousled hair.
Geoff paused as he let himself in half an hour later. He considered the sight before him as he dropped his keys on the table and then nodded as if answering a question Tristan could not hear.
"What?" Tristan asked quietly.
Geoff gestured toward Robin as he unloaded the groceries he had brought. "I wondered how long it would take you. And I must say, you surprised me. I thought it would take my doing a multimedia presentation complete with question-and-answer period before you figured out that he needs you, and you most assuredly need him."
"I do?"
"Face it, Tris, spending upwards of sixty hours in the office each week isn't healthy. You need something more in your life, and he —" Geoff nodded to Robin. "— is it."
Tristan studied the figure on his lap and then grinned at Geoff. "Does that mean there won't be a multimedia presentation?" he queried.
"No need. If you'd like, we can jump right to the questions and answers."
Tristan shook his head. "I think I'll enjoy working those out with Robin."
"Well, the offer remains open." Geoff slid a pan into the oven and straightened up.
"Thanks," Tristan said after a moment.
Geoff handed him a glass of wine. "It's only lasagna from that little market around the corner and wine left from Christmas."
Tristan held up his glass, clinking it lightly against Geoff's. "Just what I need."
Part 3