[Henry Allard] This is not the best month that they’ve ever had, but at least his arm isn’t broken and he isn’t having panic attacks every time they turn around.
Henry has been on medical leave of absence for a week and a half now, and although he does not complain that the length of time or the fact that the side effects of the medication increase are getting to him, Tristan can tell. It’s the fact that he doesn’t talk very much anymore, or the fact that he’s allowing himself to get intoxicated more frequently, or the fact that he’d woken up screaming “DAD!” and burst into tears last week, or the fact that unless Tristan initiates anything more intimate than almost chaste touch or restrained kisses that they don’t even attempt to make love anymore; it’s difficult for Henry to make the attempt after the last several times have seen him simply giving up rather than keep trying to join Tristan in the afterglow.
He has other ways of pleasing his husband, of letting him know that he cares about him and loves him and wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he lost him, but that doesn’t change the fact that it isn’t the same and it’s frustrating the hell out of him.
He’s seeing Wentz again next month, and the psychiatrist has essentially hold him to try and ride this out. Given his mule-like stubbornness and his tendency to play at normalcy in nearly every other circumstance he could encounter this wasn’t a tall order for the Child kinsman, and with Tristan not working this afternoon he had cheerfully–forcibly so–suggested they go to the park.
“Can’t take you running with me,” had been his explanation, stated as he was already ducking out of the way. “You’d never make it around the block.”
So here they are in the mounting warmth of the day, Henry wearing his antiquated running shoes and cargo shorts that end at his knees and do little more than advertise the thinness of his calves, a loose white t-shirt on over that. After the flanking of Mountain Man comments last week he’s been making more of an effort to shave his face. He isn’t depressed anymore… just frazzled.
Out of nowhere, he reaches out to take Tristan’s hand.
[Tristan Stern] It’s been a rough month. The more frazzled that Henry gets, the more it gets to Tristan, who’s always been the one who makes everything better, who makes things work better and makes the effort for normalicy in this, their very fucked up existence. Henry tries hard to act like everything’s ok, while Tristan plays the part of the husband trying to fix it without really knowing what’s broken.
It’s frustrating as hell.
He does his best, though, to put a smile on it, to be grateful that he’s got a good job, that if this isn’t fixed than he can take care of Henry for a change, that Henry hasn’t pushed him away completely, not yet, hopefully not ever. Which is why, after a swipe toward his husband for that running comment, he pretended to be out of breath, and joined Henry in a walk to/through the park anyway. He’s just strong in a DIFFERENT way. Henry runs. Tristan, despite eating anything and everything he wants, has abs of steel. Henry wears tennis shoes and shorts, while Tristan has on jeans, a t-shirt, and work crocs.
Yin/yang.
If he’s startled when Henry reaches to take his hand, in public, he doesn’t mention it. He simply lets his hand be taken, fingers spreading to lace his husband’s in between, grip gently firm, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
[Henry Allard] [WP: OH NO SOMEONE IS SEEING ME HOLD MY HUSBAND’S HAND AND THINKS IT’S BAD AAAH.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 1 at target 5)
[Henry Allard] They certainly aren’t the only ones out here, not with many of the city schools having half days, the college students without courses or jobs free to do whatever the hell they want for now, the housewives using the park as an excuse to get their kids out of the house and into something remotely resembling fresh air and the outdoors. There are so many people out here, and although they are almost close enough to the North Side for the people out here to be open-minded that doesn’t mean they are, and for a moment Henry tightly squeezes the other man’s right hand with his ring-bearing left and appears to be trying to keep himself together.
Whatever is going through his head, whatever dragged itself to the surface just then, is beaten away and down, and Henry walks closer to Tristan.
It’s green today, green and gray and the pressure’s dropping so they’re calling for rain but it’s still hotter than hell and there’s no excuse to be inside right now. Not for Henry, anyway. So they keep walking even if it seems as though the gesture is offending certain people’s sensibilities.
“Can I get your advice on something?” he asks, quietly, as if he’s afraid of being overheard.
[Tristan Stern] They don’t often touch in public, though they can never deny the connection between them, the sense that they are together in every sense of the word, even when the world seems determined to tear them apart. Tristan has always been the more open of the pair, and it’s easy to tell when Henry is really upset about something – he initiates public contact. Most times he pulls away shortly thereafter, but this time, he walks closer, and then he asks the silliest question ever asked…
“Well, I dunno, I’m only your husband…” he teases, nudging Henry with his shoulder with a soft chuckle. “Of course you can.”
[Henry Allard] Tristan reminds Henry of who he is, how that question should have been answered in his head long before it came out of his mouth, and the older kinsman drops his gaze as a self-conscious, low laugh sneaks out of his throat.
When he recovers, he looks back up, and glances over at Tristan briefly before speaking.
“I ran into Kemp and Imogen last week when I was out running, and, um… I can’t remember if I told you: the Trueborn who was, um… responsible for what happened to Travis told me about it the day I brought Joss over? And, uh, anyway, I told Kemp about that, and it just kind of slipped out that they’re, um, looking at me. Like I’m involved. So Imogen gave me the number of this guy, he’s a detective or something with the Chicago PD, she says he’s Family like, but I… um… I couldn’t make myself call him. I mean, I started to, but I didn’t know how to say what I needed so I just wound up hanging up.”
A pause to clear his throat.
“She pointed him out at the bonfire Saturday night, but he was kind of soused so I didn’t say anything to him. Anyway… I don’t know what to do. I told Imogen I was concerned about him taking my coming to him as an admission of guilt rather than like, my asking for help, you know? So I don’t know if I wanna try and resolve this over the phone or go down to the station or just let it blow over or what…”
[Tristan Stern] Once he gets started, he sort of lets it all come out, and Tristan simply listens. He’s not paying attention to where they’re going, other than to side step a running child, to make sure they don’t trip on anything – the whole of his focus otherwise is on his husband, the words that fall out in a jumble, the confusion and worry.
He lifts his free hand, the ring on the third finger glinting briefly before being buried in his curls, curls that he drags back from his face, only to have them fall forward once more after he drops his hand and tucks it into the pocket of his jeans.
“Don’t go to the station – that puts it on his turf, and too close to handcuffs and not the fuzzy kind I got you for your birthday..” he flashes a grin at his husband, and chuckles softly, before he lifts a shoulder in a shurg. “He’s Family, and Imogen recommends talking to him. The reason he’s where he is, is to help folks that find themselves in this position. At the very least he can tell us if they’re still looking at you, etc. Which, since there’s not a shred of any evidence at all should be a no brainer, but the idiots..”
He trails off. He’s not happy that Henry’s a suspect, why would he be? And the problems Henry’s been suffering doesn’t make it any easier… “You want me to call and set up a meeting? Needs to be in person, on neutral ground. It’s calling for help, not as any guilt admission… That’s what he’s there for.”
[Henry Allard] He listens. He does. Sometimes it can seem as though things that Tristan–or anyone, else–puts forth to try and help on the rare occasions that he solicits advice are met with opposition, if they don’t just enter one ear and blissfully float through to the other side of his head.
As he listens he turns his head to give his husband his gaze and the attention that goes along with it, stroking Tristan’s thumb with the pad of his own, and when he’s done speaking, Henry drops his gaze for a moment, considering this. When he’s got his words together his green eyes lift again to find his husband’s.
“You’d do that?”
[Tristan Stern] There’s that soft chuckle again, the easy sound that is so at home on the charasmatic prettyboi’s lips, that sparkles in his eyes, and lightens his face, no matter the heaviness of the subject they’re speaking on.
“Of course I would. Did Imogen give you his number? And don’t think you’ll be going to the meeting alone, either.”
He meets that gaze evenly, with a lingering smile, a content happiness that even THIS can’t hurt, because the reality is, Henry had nothing to do with it all, and there’s no logical reason they’re looking at him anyway.
[Henry Allard] There’s no logical reason at all why they would be considering him, until one takes into consideration the fact that Henry Allard and Travis O’Leary were known to have had a bad breakup years ago, that the firefighters and the police officers of most major cities already have a long-standing if somewhat fictitious rivalry, that they continue to speak to this day even if the conversations turn to accusations and arguments, and there is an unanswered cellphone call from O’Leary to Allard the day before the former went missing.
Not to mention the fact that Allard was sent to Northwestern Memorial Hospital’s emergency department two nights before and doesn’t remember who assaulted him. There is no way to confirm that it wasn’t O’Leary.
The theory that the missing persons unit are tossing around is that someone, maybe not Allard but someone, killed O’Leary in the heat of the moment or out of some sort of retribution and knew enough about police procedure and human anatomy to dispose of the body and everything on it without being caught. Allard was a firefighter for nine years before he became a fire paramedic, and he’s been in that position for coming up on five years; and the man has no alibi for the afternoon of June 11. He claims he was at home.
How many people claim they were at home when they were really out murdering someone?
Henry doesn’t argue with Tristan. He would like to believe that they live in a world where an honest man can repeat the same story over and over and not have to sacrifice someone else in order to clear his name. He knows who Travis O’Leary’s killer is. The man confessed as much to him. He also knows he doesn’t have the balls to say anything about it to anyone who can do anything about it.
So he keeps stroking the shaft of Tristan’s thumb, and he nods. Imogen gave him John Thornton’s number; he won’t be going alone.
“I’ll give it to you when we get home. It’s in my nightstand.”
[Tristan Stern] Tristan is doing a good job of hiding his true feelings, to a certain extent. When Henry told him what had happened, when he met Joss, and discovered why they were sitting together in their living room, when the whole story came out – he did well not to turn and stalk off, and go to find a certain trueborn, and put his fist through his face.
Tristan once stood up to Decker Rohl, for chrissakes, and lived to tell the tale. (with three broken ribs and a sheepish acceptance that the Alpha of the pack will always call him faggot, but that’s grown to be a term of endearment, really, over the years…) He wants to hit him, hit him SO HARD he can already feel the crunch of bones beneath his knuckles.
All Henry gets of this though, is a gentle squeeze of their nestled fingers. He knows who the killer was. He just cannot say it, cannot admit to them that he does, and that in turn makes him look like he’s hiding something, and guilty as hell.
“Ok. I’ll call him right away. We’ll tell him the whole story, and see what his advise is. Being Family, he’ll help, especially with Imogen’s word backing us.”
[Henry Allard] He’ll call him right away.
Henry nods, the inside of his lower lip pulled between his teeth as he gnaws in that anxious fashion he hasn’t done in ages, and looks at his husband with something like desperation in his eyes. There is too much on his plate right now. Without work to go to for eight hours a day the needs of the Nation are encroaching on him, his dreams are becoming nightmares and his nightmares aren’t following the paradigm set forth by post-traumatic recollection of loss of loved ones and and the threat of loss of life; this was different, and this left him feeling as though everything about him was entirely wrong.
It makes him catch the disapproving glances of people he’s never even seen before and feel as though he’s somehow ruining their lives just by having exposed them to the sight of atrocity. What he has with Tristan he wouldn’t trade for anything but right now who he is is torturing him.
Swallowing thickly, Henry does something that he hasn’t done since the night he woke up with his father’s name in his throat, that he hasn’t done clothed in any amount of time that he can bring to mind: he turns and all but dives into Tristan’s arm, seeking out comfort and strength while he is temporarily weak.
He couldn’t do this by himself, and though he doesn’t say it, they both know it. He just buries his face in Tristan’s neck and tells himself what he can’t bring himself to doubt. If he ever doubts what they’re going through isn’t going to end, that will be the day that he completely cracks.
(And god, if he had any idea how badly Tristan would want to smash the face of the man who put them in this position Henry never would have said anything.)
[Tristan Stern] He finds himself with his husband suddenly burying himself in his arms – in public even, and that is enough to raise that stress level again, to pull it up to where he wants to DESTROY that stupid idiot’s face, instead of just smash it (which is why he says nothing about it)… but all he does is wrap his arms around his husband, offering his strength, his life, his love, his soul all in the simple act of holding the man he lives for close. His hand slides along the back of Henry’s neck, fingers tucking into his hair, the other arm tight around him, holding him tight, close.
Here there is safety.
Here there is understanding.
Here there is love.
“I’ll be ok. I swear it.” Even though they both know that there is no guarantee, Tristan has always held out the hope that everything they go through will work out in their favor. Always.
Eventually.
And he doesn’t say anything else, he just rests his cheek atop Henry’s head, closes his eyes, and holds him close. Sometimes, it’s all he can do.
[Henry Allard] [And wrap! Yay!]