Fic: Too Heavy For Me Part Three

[daniomalley22]

Part Two

Pete ran into Viv the next day as she was giving medications. “Don’t talk to me,” she said brusquely, concentrating fiercely on the chart. She picked up one pill bottle and frowned down at it.

“Damn computer system,” she grumbled, putting the bottle down and moving on to the next one. “You’d think it should be capable of keeping track of who has and hasn’t been discharged.” She took the medication into the room and Pete was left in the hallway with the medication cart.

He looked at the bottle sitting on the edge of the cart, the label only half visible. He glanced towards the room Viv had disappeared into and, on a whim, turned the bottle around with the tip of one finger. He was pretty sure he was breaking all kinds of rules by even touching the drugs, but he could read the bottle’s label now. Valium, like he’d thought. He glanced at the patient’s room again. Viv was still inside. He looked up and down the hallway. It was empty.

Viv was busy, and distracted with her work. The medication wasn’t even supposed to be there, according to what she’d said, so she probably wouldn’t notice if she came back and it was just... gone. No one would miss it.

Pete heard footsteps coming back from the room and before he could think twice, he wrapped his hand around the little bottle and pulled it to his side.

Viv came out of the room, already reading the chart again. Pete smiled at her but she didn’t look up.

“Need any help?” he asked.

“No thanks,” Viv murmured.

“Okay, see you later,” Pete said cheerily, and went on down the hallway to Patrick’s room. He shoved the pill bottle into his pocket as he walked. He stopped outside Patrick’s room and remembered to knock and wait for Patrick to answer before going in.

Patrick didn’t answer, though. Pete’s knock was followed by silence, and after a few seconds had passed he called out again. Nothing.

Pete gripped the doorframe. What was he supposed to do now? What if Patrick couldn’t answer for some reason, and he needed help? What if he was asleep, and Pete frightened him by going into the room? He edged forwards, feeling a sense of building frustration. He could go in and frighten Patrick and be that Guide who startled him into a flashback twice, or he could go bother one of the nurses and be that Guide who bothered people who had better things to do.

Pete walked into the room, holding one hand up near his face in case Patrick threw his lunch tray at him again. Nothing came flying at his head, though, and Pete hesitantly said, “Patrick? It’s Pete.”

“I know,” Patrick said irritably. He wasn’t looking at Pete, but out the window, his fist clenched on top of the blanket. “I heard you the first dozen times.”

Then why didn’t you answer me, Pete wondered, but he didn’t say that. Patrick was clearly not in the mood.

“Okay,” Pete said, trying for a cheery tone. “I wasn’t sure. So, did you eat a bit more today?”

Patrick glowered and Pete knew he’d misstepped. “Um,” he said, trying to think of a way to gracefully change the topic. “It’s a bit warmer outside today. Hey, have you just been sitting inside all week? Maybe you should get some time outside. I mean, I bet you’d feel better. I could walk with you or something. If you want.”

Patrick sighed, like Pete was forcing him to reply with his complete inability to shut up. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Getting a nice walk out in the fresh air won’t grow my hand back, will it?”

“Come on, man,” Pete said, growing tired of Patrick’s gloominess. “It’s not all bad. Think about it, you’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yes,” Patrick replied, with a precision that Pete was wise enough to find concerning. “I am. I have - I had five friends who weren’t as lucky as me. And every time I look at my s-stump,” he paused to bark out a faint, hysterical laugh, “I remember what happened to them, and to me. So don’t tell me how lucky I am, okay? I know.”

In the silence that fell on the room, a pin dropping would have sounded like a thunderclap. When someone knocked at the door, it felt to Pete like a cataclysmic event, but Patrick only called “Yeah?” in the same weary tone he always used.

It was Aaron. “Hey, Patrick,” he said. “Pete. It’s good you’re back. Having a consistent regime for treatment can be really beneficial.”

It didn’t seem all that beneficial to Pete. It felt like the most uncomfortable hour of his life.

***

Pete had told himself that he wasn’t actually going to use the Valium. Just keep it on hand in case he needed it. Of course he was kidding himself, and on some level he’d been aware of that, but it had made it easier to take the plunge and steal the pills. The awkward thing with Patrick had left him feeling rattled, and the rest of the day had been no less stressful. He was starting to think almost longingly of the bottle in his pocket.

It was a relief to walk back to the apartment at the end of the day, even though it was his turn to cook and clean the kitchen. The others would end up helping anyway, they always did, and they were easy company. So it was a rather unpleasant surprise to reach the apartment and find Ridley and Nagel inside.

Pete gulped and backed up to stand by the front door. Edward sidled over to Pete and leaned towards him to murmur, “Room inspection.” Pete nodded as calmly as he could manage, but internally he was beginning to panic. Room inspection? Why? Had Viv noticed the missing Valium? Did they suspect Pete of taking it? He put a hand over the bottle still sitting in his pocket, then forced himself to pull it away. They might not know. He needed to play it cool.

It looked like they’d already gone through the kitchen and living room. All the cupboard doors were open and the couch cushions looked like they’d been moved around. He could see through the open door to the room he shared with Edward, where Nagel was opening the drawers of the bedside table and Ridley was going through the closet.

“I heard that Sandburg wants to change the regulations so that once Guides are out of training, they choose where they live if they don’t live with a Sentinel,” Nagel said loudly. “What do you lot think of that?”

Pete glanced quickly at the others. None of them answered Nagel’s question. Nagel rummaged through Pete’s underwear, and Pete wondered if he’d be able to run a quick load of laundry once they were gone.

“You’d like that, eh, Linda? Having your very own apartment to live in? No room inspections, no rules to worry about?”

Linda looked at the other Guides for help. She was the youngest and most timid of them, so of course she would be the one Nagel decided to single out. They all stared back helplessly. “No, sir?” she tried.

“No?” Nagel closed all the drawers and stood up, eyes wide. “Really? You don’t think that sounds pretty nice?”

Linda’s face said ‘oh, shit,’ as clearly as if it was written there in permanent marker. Everything was silent for a second or two, and then Sharon said, “We all enjoy your company so much, sir, we’d miss you terribly if you were gone,” in a voice so devoid of inflection it was almost robotic.

Nagel turned towards her with a gleeful expression, but it was at that moment that Ridley called out from the bedroom. Pete tensed up, because those were his jeans and his corduroy jacket Ridley was handling, and there was obviously a problem. What had he done?

“What is it?” Nagel asked, joining Ridley in front of the closet. “Oh. Who doesn’t know how to hang their clothes up properly?”

The other three Guides all turned their heads to look at Pete. Nagel was looking at him too, clearly waiting for an answer. Pete cleared his throat.

“My fault, sir,” he said. He felt a shudder across his shoulders and down his arms; the first rush of adrenaline.

Nagel looked at Ridley with raised eyebrows; Ridley looked back gormlessly. “Well?” Nagel said after a minute.

“Uh,” Ridley said. He waved Pete over. “So, you’ve got to sort the clothes by type...”

“Christ,” Nagel snapped, and in a lower voice he added, “you’re fucking useless, kid.” He swept all the clothes out of the closet in one movement and dumped them on the floor. Edward made a small, wounded sound as his carefully pressed linen shirts landed on the floorboards, but he didn’t move.

“Fix this up. Properly, this time,” Nagel said severely.

“Yes, sir,” said Pete, trying to pretend he wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack. He’d forgotten it could be like this; this was why he’d been so desperate to get out of the Navy. The micromanagement and the complete lack of individuality. Bullshit questions that were designed to be unanswerable. Trent had been bad, but not that bad. He hadn’t cared how Pete had organised the house. He’d given Pete hell if he didn’t meet Trent’s needs, but he’d left it entirely up to Pete how he chose to accomplish that.

Pete picked up a pair of pants and a shirt and tried to remember how they were supposed to go. Edward always arranged his clothes perfectly; too bad all his clothes had been dumped on the floor along with Pete’s. He glanced sideways at Ridley, who was slowly turning red with humiliation, and put both hangers on the rail.

“Your pants go on the right, not the left,” Ridley barked. “And the shirt should face the other way. Are you trying to fuck up?”

Pete breathed hard through his nose and moved everything around, the shaking in his hands growing worse. It was looking uncertain as to whether he was about to break down or tell Ridley to go fuck himself; he couldn’t afford to do either. He added more clothes, and he must have got it right because after a few seconds Ridley and Nagel moved off to check Sharon and Linda’s room. Pete heard Edward walk over.

“Let me help,” Edward offered, and Pete nodded again, even though what he really wanted was to be left alone.

“You okay?” Edward asked quietly. Pete nodded again. He couldn’t make himself speak, even though he knew it was okay. He knew it was absurd, but he couldn’t shake the fear that Edward would get in trouble for talking to him, or that he might get in trouble for nodding back.

“Did you say something?” Edward asked after a minute. Pete shook his head, but he realised he’d been muttering to himself. Counting under his breath, counting points. He shook his head harder. He needed to get a grip.

“I think they’re about to leave,” Edward said. “Are you okay to finish this up?”

Pete nodded again. Most of the mess was cleaned up, and he knew what to do now. Edward left the room and Pete listened to the caseworkers talking in the main room. He waited until they had closed the front door behind them, and stepped to the other side of the bedroom where he was out of sight. He pulled the pill bottle out of his pocket and opened it.

It wasn’t full, but there were at least a dozen pills inside. He’d been hoping for more, but right now he only needed one. He shook it out onto his palm and put it in his mouth, swallowing it dry.

“Pete, are you okay?” Edward called.

Pete fumbled the lid back onto the bottle. “Yeah,” he called. He stuffed the bottle into the toe of a sock and put it in the very back of his sock drawer. He wondered how long it would take for the Valium to take effect.

Pete walked out into the main room. “What do you guys want for dinner?” he asked, forcing his face into a smile. It felt a little easier already.

***

That night, Pete slept soundly. He woke up in the morning feeling slightly groggy from the after effects of the Valium, but it was a substantial improvement on waking up shaking and crying from nightmares with Edward giving him weird looks.

He’d thought that it would help, give him a boost, that the full night’s sleep and relief from stress would leave him feeling refreshed, but it didn’t work out that way. After the hours of not having to care about Patrick being a jerk and Nagel screaming in his face and memories surfacing and taking him unawares, it sucked to wake up and have all those things matter again. Pete eyed the drawer where he’d hidden the pill bottle.

He was alarmed by how tempting it was to take another one. He couldn’t do that. The effects were too obvious, and someone would notice. The bottle was only half full and he had no means of getting more. He needed to save them. He could so easily get used to not needing to care about everything.

This was going to be a problem. He’d have to stop, there was no other way around it. That night, he’d need to come back and get rid of the rest of the pills; flushing them would probably be best, so that they were out of reach of temptation. There would be no chance to do it before he went to start work - with four of them sharing one bathroom, privacy was hard to come by. He couldn’t afford to become dependent on them, or, God forbid, get caught.

Pete went to help Evan get dressed. Not an awesome start to the day. It didn’t really improve from there - physiotherapy with Patrick was just as uncomfortable as it had been the day before. He left straight afterwards to distract himself with other work. The afternoon passed uneventfully. Pete told himself that he was completely unaffected by the Sentinel who called him an incompetent halfwit, and the doctor who barked orders at him because he was standing in the wrong spot, and that he felt much better for not having to look at Patrick’s glowering, mopey face. He was fine. He was awesome.

Pete was anticipating leaving the hospital and going back to the apartments - where he still had several hours of work ahead, cooking for Evan and sitting with Terri - when Viv spotted him and called out.

“Hey, Pete. Can you take Patrick up to prosthetics? He’ll probably need a Guide while he meets the prosthetist.”

Damn. “One of my other Sentinels is sort of expecting me...” Pete said.

“It won’t kill him to wait thirty minutes,” said Viv, looking impatient. “Come on, Pete, you’re the only Guide around who isn’t busy. Go do your job.”

Pete had no choice, so he went to Patrick’s room and tapped at the door. “Hey,” he called. “Patrick? It’s Pete. You’re supposed to be meeting your prosthetist now, or something?”

Patrick didn’t reply, but stepped into view, arms folded across his chest and shoulders hunched. He walked towards Pete, then past him out into the hallway without speaking.

“Okay,” said Pete. “Do you know where we’re going? I’m not sure, but Viv said it’s upstairs.”

Patrick didn’t answer, but led the way to an elevator. When Pete peered at Patrick’s face, he could see that the other man looked tense and unhappy, lost in thought, and he decided that it was no good trying to force Patrick into a conversation he was obviously not in the mood for. They went up to the prosthetist’s office in silence.

The prosthetist’s name was Dr Samuels. She was a short woman with honey brown hair, rather young for a doctor, Pete thought. She greeted Patrick with a smile, shaking his hand. She nodded to Pete and got them both sitting down in front of her desk.

“Let’s get started,” she said. “I’m going to need to examine your arm, Patrick, is that okay?”

Patrick was stiff, but he nodded and held out his left arm. Samuels unwrapped the bandages around it while Patrick turned his head away. Pete wondered whether Patrick would prefer he not look, either. He remembered Patrick’s first session with the physio, where he’d told Pete he hated having an audience for this sort of thing. But in the end, Pete gave in to curiosity.

There was nothing remarkable about it. The stitches had been removed but he could still see where they’d been. Samuels hmmed over it and eventually said, “Well, this all looks pretty good. No sign of swelling. It’s well-shaped. We’ll be able to take an impression today.”

She took a tape measure and wrapped it around Patrick’s arm a few inches from the end.

“I thought it would take longer. For it to heal,” said Patrick.

“Did your surgeon explain the procedure to you?” Samuels asked.

“Only briefly.”

Samuels nodded. “Okay. Well, there’s no definitive point at which we’d consider the residual limb ‘healed’. You will notice ongoing changes to it throughout your lifetime. That means that you will continue to outgrow prosthetics and require replacements, so you’ll need to continue consulting with me or another prosthetist to ensure that you’re not using a prosthesis that’s become unsuitable.”

“Okay,” said Patrick, looking rather dazed.

“You can expect to need a new prosthesis every few years. They tend to wear out at about that point anyway, particularly if they’re heavily used.” Samuels waited, and Patrick nodded. She marked Patrick’s arm with a permanent marker, then took what looked like a small silicone sock. She rolled it over the end of Patrick’s arm and felt around it. “Does that feel okay?” she asked. “Is it too tight?”

Patrick shifted in his seat, his face looking drawn. “I’m not sure, I think my dials are...”

Pete shifted over to take Patrick’s hand and link up. Samuels waited for them. “It’s important that the fit is comfortable when you’re at your baseline level, but not too loose,” she said. “Take a moment. I can get a larger casting sock if we need one.”

Patrick’s dials were edging upwards - he had to be stressed. Pete helped him ease his sense of touch down to normal, and Patrick nodded. “It feels fine,” he said.

“Good,” said Samuels. She made a few more marks on the sock and began to slide it off. “Now. What is it, exactly, that you’re looking for in a prosthesis?”

Patrick blinked, not seeming to understand. “I want... what do you mean? Hand shaped?”

Samuels smiled a little bit. “You can get a cosmetic prosthetic, if you choose,” she said. She began to use scissors to trim the sock along the lines she’d drawn. “The technology for them is becoming quite sophisticated, so we should be able to match the shape and skin tone of your remaining hand very closely. But a prosthesis like that is typically not functional.”

“Meaning?”

Samuels held out the sock. “Here. You need to check that you can put this on and remove it by yourself.”

Patrick slid the sock into place over his arm, and Samuels added, “A cosmetic prosthetic does not, as a rule, include mechanics that mimic the functioning of a real hand. It can’t be used to pick up or hold something.”

“Oh. So it’s like a hand sculpture. Form over function.”

Samuels shrugged. “If you decide that’s the right option for you, the form is the function,” she pointed out.

“What else is there?”

Satisfied that Patrick could handle the sock without assistance, Samuels fitted a sort of screw to the end. “This is where the sock will be attached to the prosthesis,” she explained. “Now, you might prefer something more like this.” She picked up something from the desk. It wasn’t attached to a sock, but Pete could see where it could be connected to one. It had two... fingers, he supposed... which could be separated or brought together in a pincer grip.

Patrick didn’t seem impressed. “It looks like something off an automated assembly line,” he said gloomily. “Those are my options? A hand that might as well be made out of wood, or one that makes me look like a freak?”

Samuels didn’t acknowledge the frustration in Patrick’s voice. She took a roll of clingwrap and began wrapping it around the sock on Patrick’s arm. “There are alternatives which attempt to combine the best features of both,” she said gently. “But that is reflected in the cost, and the VA would not cover all of it. It’s up to you, if you want to pursue something like that.”

Patrick clenched his jaw. Samuels soaked strips of plaster wrap in a bowl, and began to wrap his arm. “It might help us to work out what will suit you best if you can tell me a little bit about what you’d like to be able to do,” she suggested.

“What, like feed myself? Tie my own shoelaces?”

Samuels exchanged a glance with Pete, who shrugged. He wasn’t going to speak up; he’d learned his lesson about that yesterday.

“This will need a few minutes to dry,” she said.

Once the cast was finished they headed back to Patrick’s room. Samuels offered to organise a temporary prosthesis, something for Patrick to practice with so he could get a better idea of what he wanted. It seemed like a good idea to Pete.

“So, this is good,” Pete said, putting false enthusiasm into his voice.

“Is it?”

“Well, it’s one step closer to getting your life back to normal.”

“Right,” said Patrick. “As good as new, huh?”

“Well, no, I don’t mean that, but... you’ll be able to do stuff again. Samuels said you’ll be able to do nearly all everyday tasks...”

“Yeah,” Patrick said as they arrived back at his room. “That is my lifelong dream. Almost being able to take care of myself.”

“It’s not so bad,” Pete said stupidly.

“You know what, Pete?” Patrick said, turning on him. “You don’t have a clue what it’s like, so why don’t you shut up?”

Pete stepped back to the doorway.

“I’m probably going to be discharged from the Army, and I had plans for what I wanted to do with my life once that happened, but those plans involved me having both hands!” Patrick shouted, warming to the subject. “My life’s never going to be normal again, and you stand there with your two hands and your happy smile telling me everything’s gonna be fine! No it’s not, Pete!”

It had been a long day, and Pete had had enough. “Why don’t you shut up, Patrick?” he snapped recklessly. He knew he should shut up, he knew, but it felt far too good to lash out at someone, too good to stop, even if he knew he’d regret it later. “You want to sit there and have a cry about how your life’s so hard? You lost your hand? Big fucking deal!” He drew a deep breath but barrelled on before Patrick could get a word in. “You’ll get out of here and they’ll give you a prosthetic hand and a Guide to wait on your every whim. You won’t have to cook your own meals or dress yourself or wipe your own damn ass if you don’t want to! You think I’ve got it so good, huh, how about you try it for one fucking day?”

Patrick looked at Pete intently, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and at last he said, “Get out, Pete. I don’t want you here.”

***

Instead of going to make Evan’s dinner like he was supposed to, Pete went straight to his own bedroom and grabbed the pills. The other Guides weren’t there, were still out working, and the little apartment felt strange without the chatter of three other people filling it.

He swallowed a pill and put the bottle back in the drawer. Briefly he remembered that he’d been planning on getting rid of them, but he dismissed the idea. He couldn’t do that; he might need them. Probably would, in this shithole. He’d just have to figure something out.

Pete hurried to Evan’s room as his mood lifted and his worries disappeared. What did he care about Patrick anyway? The Sentinel wasn’t his problem.

The next day was Saturday, which in theory was supposed to be an easy day. In reality, Sentinels still needed attention from a Guide, meals still needed to be cooked, and all the trivial tasks that tended to be neglected during the week needed to be caught up on.

At lunchtime, Jon asked Pete to come around for lunch as thanks for all the meals he’d made. “Look,” Jon said, bringing both plates over to the couch. “Two plates at once, and I haven’t even dropped anything!”

“Congratulations,” Pete said wryly. “I can see this is a big moment for you.”

Jon put the food down and sat down, lifting his bad leg up to balance it on the cushion he’d put on the coffee table. It still wasn’t completely fixed yet, he’d explained, but they’d taken the cast off and he could walk without crutches.

“Now it’s just a matter of relaxing for the next week or so until I get my marching orders,” said Jon, taking a massive bite of his sandwich.

“You think it’ll be that soon?” Pete asked. “I’d have thought you’d still have at least a month of physio ahead of you.”

“Yeah, at least. But I should be able to keep that regime up by myself, once they show me what to do. I doubt they’ll let me stick around here for too long.”

“Oh.” Pete started to eat his own sandwich, but he wasn’t as hungry as he had been. “That sucks.” The other Guides were nice enough, but Jon was the only one he’d consider a friend.

“You’ll have to give me your email address before I go.”

Pete nodded, but privately he was wondering how he’d send any emails with Jon gone.

“Speaking of which, you want to use the computer?”

Pete had been planning to send a quick email, but Mikey turned out to be online, so Pete sent him a chat message.

wentzp: hey mikey i cant talk for long because im on my lunch break but i wanted to say hi. whats up?

mikey: PETE! It’s good to hear from you. How are things? Good, I hope.

wentzp: yeah i guess they are. sort of

mikey: What do you mean, sort of?

wentzp: no nothing. everythings fine

mikey: Dude, you sound like me.

wentzp: why whats wrong?

mikey: I KNEW something was wrong.

mikey: LOL

wentzp: no i meant that YOU were insisting something was wrong and then you said i sounded like you...

wentzp: you know what I mean. damn it mikey.

mikey: Yeah, ok. I know.

wentzp: so?

mikey: Shit, I didn’t mean to turn this into a conversation about my problems. You’re not off the hook, you know.

wentzp: i know. spill

mikey: It’s just what I sound like when Gerard’s doing the ultra-protective Sentinel thing.

mikey: You know, all the ‘you can tell me anything, Mikey, and I’ll do whatever I can to fix it’. Know what I mean?

wentzp: not really

mikey: I really shouldn’t be complaining about this.

wentzp: no its fine. i want you to tell me

mikey: It’s just that he’s looking for a problem he can fix, and usually I can’t give him one, and then I end up being the one comforting him about not being able to help me, and it’s a pain. I’m dealing with my own stuff, you know? I don’t want to deal with his too.

wentzp: yeah

wentzp: shit

mikey: So I was worried when you kept saying you were fine that I was being that guy who wants you to explain how he can help so he can feel better

mikey: I promise to offer absolutely no helpful advice or suggestions if you tell me what’s bothering you

wentzp: thats very kind of you

mikey: Thanks. So?

mikey: Or, I mean. It doesn’t have to be me. Someone else might have actual helpful advice, for real.

wentzp: i doubt it but thanks ill think about what you said

wentzp: id better go now theres still work to do. talk to you soon?

mikey: Yeah, you bet.

Pete shut the computer down and realised that while he’d been chatting with Mikey, Jon had cleaned up the dishes from the lunch he’d made, which didn’t really make him feel any less shitty about himself.

“You’re looking kind of serious over there,” said Jon.

“Sorry I left you with all the cleaning up.”

“Don’t worry about it. I owe you one. Or, you know, more than one. It’s fine.”

Pete nodded, but he must have looked pretty gloomy, because Jon said, “You want to talk about it?”

“I yelled at Patrick yesterday, got really pissed off with him.”

Jon nodded and looked concerned. “Really? Is it going to be a problem?”

“Well, I don’t think he’s going to complain to anyone about it. I just feel bad - he’s been through a lot of stuff and everything’s changed for him, and I said it was no big deal.”

“Well, he might not have taken it that way.”

Pete snorted. “Unlikely, since I literally said ‘so you lost your hand? Big fucking deal.’”

Jon’s eyes widened. “Dude.”

“I know.”

“Have you talked to him since then?”

“No. I’m too much of a wimp. But I can’t avoid him forever. Unless I can get Linda or someone to trade one of their Sentinels. Maybe I should ask them.”

Jon shook his head. “It can’t be that bad, can it? He probably can’t fuck you up too badly, what with only having one hand.”

Pete gaped at him. “I cannot believe you just said that.”

“Me neither, actually.” Jon looked rather unrepentant, but said, “Sorry. Poor taste.”

“What should I do?”

“I don’t know. If you were worried that he’d do something to you, I’d say sure, try to trade him off with one of the others, but I thought you two got along. So... you could apologise?”

“What if he doesn’t accept my apology?” Pete asked, playing with the cuff of his uniform shirt nervously. Talking the problem out with Jon was making him realise that he wasn’t worried about what Patrick would do, he was worried that Patrick wouldn’t like him anymore. When had he started caring about that?

“Then you’d have to leave him alone, I guess,” Jon said, shrugging. “But you might feel better if you at least try to talk to him.” Jon looked at him thoughtfully. “Why’d you get so mad at him?”

“Oh, man, I don’t even know.”

“Well, if you figure it out, and you think he’d listen, it might be worth talking to Patrick about it.”

“What, like, ‘sorry I said your permanent disability is better than being a Guide, it’s just that if I could trade places with you I think I probably would’?”

“Hmm,” said Jon. “I might not put it exactly like that.”

“You think?”

Jon kind of laughed, and then he said, “You feel angry most of the time, don’t you?”

Pete looked at him. Jon shifted and added, “I mean, I’m not criticising. I’m sure you have your reasons.”

“Maybe I do,” Pete said. He could hear himself beginning to sound pissed off, which only seemed to amuse Jon.

“I just don’t think it’s anything to do with Patrick. Is it?” He looked piercingly at Pete, who glowered back. Fucking Guides. Between them and Sentinels, a guy could have no secrets at all.

“He’s a jerk,” Pete said, although he wasn’t sure he meant it.

“Okay,” said Jon, with an irritatingly smug tone. “If you say so.”

***

Pete sidled up to the doorway of Patrick’s room like he thought he could take it by surprise. Not Patrick, that is, just the door. He knocked the knock of someone who doesn’t actually want to be heard.

“Yeah?” Patrick called.

“It’s Pete. Can I come in?”

Patrick didn’t answer straight away. “Why are you here, Pete?” he said at last, voice weary.

“I want to apologise. For yesterday.” Since Patrick was speaking to him, Pete decided he probably wouldn’t throw anything if he stuck his head into the room, and did so.

Patrick was sitting on his bed, dressed in track pants and a t-shirt. On his left arm he wore a prosthesis a bit like the one Samuels had shown them yesterday, with the claw-like hand. He had a guitar across his lap, and he was taking the strings off.

Pete stood in the doorway, waiting to see if Patrick was going to listen to him or send him away. “I didn’t know you played guitar,” Pete said stupidly.

Patrick raised his eyebrows at Pete, but didn’t bother to reply. He took one of the strings and began to reattach it awkwardly with one hand. It kept sliding loose and after debating with himself for a minute, Pete said, “Can I help?”

Patrick looked down at the guitar. “Fine,” he said guardedly. “Just put your finger... oh.”

Pete put the end of the string through the peg hole and slid the peg in after it, while Patrick wound the other end around the tuning key. “You play too?” Patrick asked.

“Used to,” said Pete. “Bass guitar, actually, but yeah.”

Patrick tightened the string and plucked it with his forefinger, tilting his head to listen. Pete wondered if he had perfect pitch. It was a little more common in Sentinels than other people. “Why’d you stop?” Patrick asked.

“Joined the Navy,” said Pete. Patrick nodded. He took the next string and they fitted it to the guitar just like the first. Pete realised what Patrick was doing; stringing the guitar with the thickest strings on the right instead of the left, so that a left-handed person could play it.

It was clever. Pete quashed the impulse to wonder aloud whether it would work. Patrick didn’t need to hear his doubts.

“I’m sorry about what I said yesterday,” Pete said, realising that he’d told Patrick he’d come to apologise and then hadn’t actually done so. “I shouldn’t have... I was out of line.”

Patrick shrugged. “Whatever. Don’t worry about it.”

That wasn’t what Pete had thought Patrick would say. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you have to pretend everything’s fine,” he said. “I know you’re not... I mean, you don’t have to fake being okay.”

“You were angry with me,” Patrick said neutrally. “Because I get to choose what happens now, and I was trying to choose... nothing?” He glanced up at Pete, like he was checking to see whether he was right.

“I suppose so,” Pete said, because no matter how good a point Jon may have made about the source of Pete’s anger, there was no denying that he’d blown up at Patrick for a reason.

“What would you do, if you were me?”

“I have no idea.”

Patrick nodded and swung the guitar around. All the strings were tuned, so he balanced the guitar on his lap and held the neck in his right hand.

“There’s a guitar pick in the case, can you grab it?” Patrick asked. Pete found it and held it so that Patrick could awkwardly, and with many failed attempts, grasp it between the pincers of the prosthetic arm. Pete wasn’t sure how well it would work; it didn’t seem like Patrick could hold the pick as securely as he needed to and he was still learning the movements to make the prosthesis grasp and release things. But Pete supposed it didn’t need to work perfectly; if this experiment was a success Patrick could probably get a more appropriate prosthesis.

Patrick fingered a sequence of chords on the guitar neck several times without strumming, concentrating to get them right, and finally he lifted up his left arm and began to play.

It wasn’t going to work. Pete could tell immediately. There was no flexibility in the wrist of the prosthesis and so all the movement had to come from Patrick’s elbow. After a few bars his shoulders were already slumping. He played for a few more seconds and then the pick slipped free and fell into the sound hole.

“Shit,” Patrick muttered, looking down at the guitar.

“Want some help?” Pete took the guitar and tilted it from side to side, trying to get the pick to slide out again. He’d never had this issue with his bass.

“Fucking acoustics,” Patrick muttered.

Pete gave the guitar a shake, listening for the rattle and trying to figure out where the pick was. “So what’s the verdict?”

Patrick sighed. “It’s a bit too heavy,” he said, gesturing to the prosthesis. “And Dr Samuels said the permanent prosthesis would be even heavier. I wouldn’t be able to play for long like that.”

“Yeah. You could talk to her. Maybe she can get you something lighter?”

“Maybe.”

Pete hesitated, then dared to ask, “Why didn’t you bring this up when you saw her? I didn’t even know you played guitar. She might have some suggestions.”

“I dunno. I was worried she’d tell me it couldn’t be done.”

Pete understood that. Sometimes, no answer was safer than an answer you didn’t want. Even so, he asked, “If she did, what would change?”

Patrick didn’t answer, but he looked thoughtful. Something small and plastic hit Pete’s knee, and he scrambled for the pick triumphantly. “Got it!” he exclaimed, holding it up. Patrick looked at him, and he felt foolish. “Uh. Never mind,” he said.

“You know,” said Patrick, “the worst thing is, what went wrong on that mission wasn’t even anyone’s fault. No one screwed up, it was just terrible luck. There’s no one I can blame. Even if there was, they’d probably be dead and I wouldn’t be able to stay angry with them. It’s hard to hold a grudge against a dead person.”

“I know.”

“So there’s just nothing to do with all that anger. I can’t even feel angry that I can’t play anymore, what’s the point? It’s too late.”

“Maybe you could sing,” Pete suggested.

“Sing?”

“Yeah. I bet you could. You’ve probably got a great voice.”

“No, I can’t. And it’s not the same. Shut up.”

Pete grinned, beginning to feel bolder. He was getting a better sense of when Patrick would and wouldn’t tolerate being pushed.

“Move over,” Pete said, nudging Patrick with his shoulder. He put the guitar between them, resting half on his leg and half on Patrick’s, with the neck sticking out to the right. “Come on,” said Pete, strumming with his left hand a couple of times. It really did feel strange. “What were you playing before? The Stars and Stripes Forever?”

“You fucking philistine,” Patrick gasped, grabbing the neck of the guitar. “Pay attention. It’s time someone taught you about proper music.”

***

Edward came in for dinner late one night, and sat at the kitchen table playing with his fork, a distant look in his eyes.

“What happened?” asked Sharon.

“Julia asked me to bond with her.”

“Seriously?” Pete asked.

“Oh my God, Edward, that’s amazing! What did you say?” Linda squealed.

“Seriously?” Pete repeated.

“I said yes, of course. I didn’t think she’d actually ask me, you know. We haven’t known one another all that long.” Edward reached to pour himself a glass of water and nearly knocked the pitcher over. Pete grabbed it and poured a glass for him.

“It’s about time she did,” Sharon said. “Never seen two people as stupid over one another as you two.”

That was probably because no one dared be stupid around Sharon for very long, Pete thought privately, but she had a point.

“When are you going to do it?” Linda asked.

Edward took a long sip of water. “I have no idea,” he said. “We’d need an entire day. How can I leave you guys to manage everything for an entire day? No, it would be longer than that, because afterwards... How long would it take for G-TAC to replace me?”

“A couple of days, at least,” Sharon said. “We could probably manage for that long.”

“They won’t organise a replacement sooner, if we ask them?” Pete wondered.

They all exchanged a glance. “Maybe,” Linda said, but Sharon was shaking her head.

“They can’t be trusted,” she said. “If we did ask, they’d probably interfere somehow to stop it happening. Better just to do it - they can’t undo it once it’s done.”

“Jon could help,” said Pete. “He’s off the crutches now, so he can do more. He would, if we asked him.”

“Can you talk to him?” asked Sharon. “You two are friends.”

Pete agreed. They decided that the bonding should happen next Sunday, as the quietest day of the week, and Edward divided up his Sentinels - minus Julia - between the three of them. Pete tracked Jon down the next morning.

“Well, I’ll do what I can,” Jon said, forehead wrinkled with thought. “But I was going to come find you later and tell you - I’m heading out of here on Monday. Got my new assignment.”

He didn’t look all that happy about it. “Really?” said Pete. “You know what it is?”

“Oh, in Washington state. Some Sentinel named Ross.”

“You don’t seem thrilled.”

“My caseworker gave me the impression he’s a giant pain in the ass. Still, it will get me out of here. It’s been okay, but it can get kind of depressing.”

Pete nodded. “I’ll miss hanging out,” he said.

“Me too,” Jon said with a smile. “We’ll have to make sure not to lose touch.”

Pete went across to see Patrick, who was the happiest Pete had seen him yet.

“I’m getting out of here!” said Patrick. “Tomorrow. They’re sending me across to one of the apartments, so I can keep working with the physio.”

“That’s awesome, Patrick! Wow, everyone’s on the move.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, nothing.” Pete opened the door of Patrick’s closet. “You need a hand packing up your stuff? I mean - uh-” Pete realised what he’d said and stopped short, embarrassed, but Patrick didn’t seem to have noticed.

“There’s a suitcase down the bottom of the closet there. Everything should fit in it. Except for all those magazines my Mom keeps sending. I told her enough already, but...”

Once most of Patrick’s belongings were packed into the suitcase, Patrick had another appointment with the prosthetist. She had Patrick’s prosthetic arm and walked him through how to attach and use it.

“You’ll notice that it’s somewhat heavier than the temporary prosthesis,” Samuels said, checking that everything fitted like it should. “But it’s also stronger and can lift more weight. Your physiotherapist will work with you on learning to use it. Do you have any questions?”

Patrick looked at Pete, he wasn’t sure why - for reassurance, maybe. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last time,” he said. “About things I want to be able to do.” He looked at Pete again, and this time he was on the ball enough to nod back encouragingly.

Samuels listened intently as Patrick talked, and when he was finished she said, “Well, I’ll need to do some reading about that. I know that there’s no standard prosthesis that does what you want, so I think most musicians in your position make something themselves or have something custom made, but I’m sure I can find some possibilities. Let me get back to you next time we meet.”

With that, the appointment was over and Pete had to hurry to get through the rest of his work. He walked briskly through the ward, his eyes straying towards the storage room where the medications were kept almost without him meaning to. He only had one pill left now.

Pete stopped opposite the room and looked up and down the corridor. It was empty, and he sidled over to the storage room and tested the door handle.

It was locked, of course, and as his fingers closed around the handle he heard the sharp clicking of footsteps coming his way. He nearly sprang away from the door and resumed walking up the corridor, but not too fast, not too fast.

He glanced back once he was far enough away, and saw Viv unlocking the storage room with a key hanging on a full keychain.

Part Four