Page 81 of Manner of Death

“Covered as well. It turns out a few of my retired staff have gotten pretty bored sitting at home just reading about all the weird stuff coming through the morgue lately. It was easy to convince a few of them to step in and help out for a while.” Bashir closed the distance between them and, very gently, took Sawyer’s right hand between his.

“We have things to talk about,” he said. “Serious things. I know that, and I respect that, but for now I really just…I want to take care of you.” He sounded completely honest, almost heartbreakingly so. Sawyer blinked a few times to clear his eyes.

“Okay.” He gave a half smile. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s tried to take care of me. I’m not sure I’ll be very good at letting you, but I’ll try.”

“I’ll remember that when you’re mad at me for not brewing coffee.”

“Never mind, I hate you.”

That got enough of a laugh to lighten the mood, and when Bashir looped his arm around Sawyer’s waist, he leaned into him instead of forcing himself to stay upright like he would have with anyone else. It seemed as though it ought to feel strange to be alone with Bashir like this, out of the hospital—if just barely. Like it should feel more awkward than it did. He was grateful for the sense of ease instead. “So where are we staying for the next week?” Sawyer asked.

“I assumed your place, but maybe I shouldn’t have.” Bashir glanced at him as they headed across the parking lot. “What do you think?”

He grimaced. “I think my place has been sitting around without anyone to check on it for five days. Some of the stuff in the fridge was already iffy. I don’t know if it’s going to be very nice. Plus…” He went to shrug, then stopped himself. “It’s a townhouse. A lot smaller than your home. You might not be comfortable there.”

“I’m going to be comfortable wherever you are.”

“Spoken like someone used to sleeping on an expensive mattress.”

“Let’s check it out,” Bashir said, “and if it’s going to take some work, we’ll go to my place tonight and fix yours up tomorrow.” He opened the door for Sawyer, who slid gingerly into Bashir’s very nice Mercedes-Benz SUV. “Who usually looks after your place when you’re gone?”

“Kurt,” Sawyer said. “Or Molly if we were both working crazy hours.”

“Oh.” The conversation paused while Bashir came around to his side of the car and got in. “I can see why that’s not happening this time around.”

“I’ve got a neighbor collecting my mail and grabbing any packages,” and being a nosy busybody, no doubt “but she’s not someone I trust enough to let into my home.”

“I understand.” He headed for the address Sawyer gave him, and for a while the car was silent. Sawyer let his eyes fall closed and shifted in an effort to make his back feel better. Weird how he could break his arm, then carry all the pain and tension in his back.

Or maybe it was just because this was the first car ride he was conscious for since his accident, and he was as stiff as a board because of it. Maybe he should just give in to the impulse to look behind them to check and make sure a black SUV wasn’t following, just in case. Maybe—

“Hey.” Bashir’s hand found his leg and rested there, comforting and warm enough to make Sawyer’s spiral of paranoia stutter for a moment. “Breathe.”

Damn it, when had he stopped? But when Sawyer drew in a shaky, unstable breath a moment later, he knew Bashir was right. Spots flickered in and out of his vision, and he took a few deep breaths to get himself past the moment. “I’m okay,” he said at last.

“I know.”

That was heartening to hear.

“It’s fine if you’re not, too.”

“Are you also a psychiatrist?” Sawyer had meant it to be snarky, but it just sounded tired to him.

Bashir shook his head. “I don’t have to be to realize that this might be difficult for you, after what happened before.”

After you drove yourself into a river.

Actually, Sawyer couldn’t feel bad about that—it had seemed like the best way to deal with the situation at the time. “I’ll be okay,” he amended. “It’s not the first time I’ve had a bad reaction to a situation, and I always get over it pretty fast.”

Bashir was quiet for a second. “I know we’re still getting to know each other, but I feel like this might be important to talk about.”

Sawyer grinned. “It’s honestly not as bad as you’re thinking.” And it wasn’t as bad as he remembered either, now that he was getting into the old memory. “For a long time when I was a kid, I suffered from a fear of clowns.”

Bashir’s pretty brown eyes opened wide. “Okay, that’s not what I was expecting at all.”

“I know.” He’d probably anticipated it having to do with the movie business, or his mother’s kidnapping. Ha. Way weirder than that. “Coulrophobia,” Sawyer continued, enunciating it with relish. “And it’s not even a really good story, either. When I was a kid, I went to a birthday party where the entertainment was a clown, but he also told stories, and when he went into a different character’s perspective he held a picture of the lower half of their face in front of his. He told one story that had a lot of animals in it, and as soon as he put a picture of a dog’s muzzle in front of his own mouth, I freaked out. I couldn’t stop imagining this clown with a mouthful of sharp dog teeth.”

“That would be terrifying.”