Page 97 of Manner of Death

He could practically hear his sister pout over the phone. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck? This is your niece’s career on the line, after all.”

The silence stretched out before Sawyer finally said, “Break a leg.”

“Thank you!” Jessica chimed, and then ended the call.

Oof. Now his headache was worse than ever. Sawyer paused to take a long drink of his coffee. He put it down, then picked it back up, drained it, and brought it back to the counter. “Can I get a refill?” he asked.

“Sure,” the barista said, his eyes very wide as he took the cup. “Um. Did you really just survive being murdered by a psychopath?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

The young man nodded. He went over to the coffee machine, filled the cup up to the brim, then snapped the lid onto it and brought it back. “On the house,” he said when Sawyer got out his wallet to pay. “Congratulations on being alive, sir.”

A little of Sawyer’s frustration eased. “Thanks.”

He made it back upstairs without his phone going off and eased into their room, setting the coffee and pastries down on the table in the kitchenette. He’d planned to go out on the balcony so he didn’t wake Bashir up, but in the end, he just sat down on the suite’s couch, cup warming his good hand, and stared at the bed.

You almost didn’t get to have this. This was almost impossible.

Imagine what could have happened. Imagine how badly it could have gone.

Nightmare scenarios tore little chunks out of Sawyer’s composure, taunting him with what-ifs.

What if Boyce had taken them out in Bashir’s house? What if Bashir had had to watch Sawyer die, messy but fast with a shot to the head or slow and awful with one to the gut? What if they’d suffocated on carbon monoxide together? Shit, what if Sawyer hadn’t survived the car accident he’d thrown himself into? Bashir would have been fucked up, he knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt now. And Boyce would have had the leisure to pick his time to finish off the man whose abilities he hated so much.

Sawyer’s hand shook as he raised his coffee to his lips and sipped. Damn, he probably didn’t need this caffeine, not how he was feeling in that moment. He was jittery, desperate to go stand over Bashir like some kind of lunatic and watch him breathe and maybe shake him awake so he knew that he was all right, and—

Nope. Not okay. Breathe. Breathe. Calm down and breathe…

It took longer than Sawyer was used to, but he managed to talk himself down off the lover-or-stalker” ledge and stay seated. Bashir needed his sleep. And Sawyer needed…

Well, he needed this. This was enough, it really was. He wanted to be with Bashir, to watch over him and make sure he was okay, and to be watched over in return. He wanted to be with him. Not just for now, though—from here on out. They had gotten together under circumstances that were practically incompatible with romance, but Sawyer wanted to keep it. He just wasn’t sure how.

After a second, he grabbed his phone again and tapped out a message to someone he actually wanted to talk to. After making sure Molly was updated on the case—she was, thanks to Nan—and knew he was all right, Sawyer wrote, How did you stay together for so long? What made it work? God knew that his parents were only still married for tax reasons—they hadn’t even lived in the same house for the past decade—and his sister’s marriage had dissolved before the two-year mark.

We worked at it, honey. Some days it was hard work. Very, very hard. Molly added a gif of a weightlifter struggling to lift a chest press bar, and Sawyer smiled. But we loved each other. No matter what else was going on, we loved each other and we listened to each other. That’s what made it work. Listening, respect, and love.

The funeral is this Saturday, by the way. I hope you and Dr. Ramin can come but I understand if you can’t.

Sawyer sighed. We’ll try, he wrote back, and then I love you. Because he did. Molly was the second sweetest person in his life after Bashir.

He looked up from his phone to see the first sweetest person in his life gazing over at him with bleary eyes. “Sawyer?” he asked around a cough, then winced.

“Hey!” Sawyer got up and came over to the bed, carefully helping Bashir into a sitting position. “Easy,” he murmured. “We don’t want to hurt your ribs.”

“That’s for damn sure,” Bashir muttered, rubbing one hand down his face. He looked—well, he looked awful, honestly. His eyes were puffy, his hair was a mess, one shoulder was hiked higher than the other, probably in an effort to ease the pain in his chest and back, and his breath was…not great. But all Sawyer could think as he stared at Bashir was how much he adored him.

“Let me get your pain pills,” he said instead of blurting all that other stuff out like a weirdo. He brought the pills and the coffee over, and once Bashir got them down Sawyer grabbed the pastries as well.

“We should go to the table,” Bashir said.

“We’re in a hotel,” Sawyer replied. “We can get new sheets without having to do it ourselves.”

“Still, if we don’t need to make a mess for someone else to clean up…”

Sawyer grabbed a towel out of the bathroom, spread it out under the food. “There. Picnic blanket.”

Bashir laughed—very carefully, but he laughed. “I guess that works.” He squeezed Sawyer’s hand. “Thanks for getting food.”