Page 9 of Walking Wounded

“I’m impressed,” he says, to cover the way his throat feels tight.

“Nothing to it, really.” Hal gets a skillet on a burner and pours in vegetable oil.

“Yeah, but you had to learn somewhere.”

Hal nods, cheekbones still dark, and doesn’t look up. “I might have dated a professional chef.”

Luke ignores the way the twist in his gut becomes a deep ache. “Hit it, learned to cook from it, and quit it?” he guesses.

Hal shakes his head. “Nah, she dumped me, actually.”

“Hold on. What? Should I get a pen for this? This has to be front page scoop right here. AgirldumpedHal Rycroft?”

“Asshole,” Hal says, lightly. He adds the dredged chicken to the skillet and it sizzles. “Yeah, she did.”

“Was she…brain damaged?”

Hal flicks a ghost of a wry smile. “She said I wasn’t really ‘present.’ I dunno. I think maybe she was right.”

Luke chews at his lower lip, an old habit he thought he’d kicked until this moment. “She sounds high maintenance.”

“She was nice.” Hal sounds a little wistful.

“Since when do you like nice?”

“I always liked nice. You were the one who had to have the danger.”

“You always did confuseinterestingwithdangerous.”

“Yeah.” Hal snorts. “That’s what the guy I had to tackle last week was:interesting.”

“Shit.” Worry ripples down his arms. Makes him shiver.

“It was just some idiot.” Hal waves it off. “It’s what I get paid for.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous.”

Hal doesn’t comment.

~*~

The orange chicken tastes better than even the best takeout Luke has ever eaten. Hal says it’s because there’s no MSG in the homemade kind. They eat on the sofa, socks propped on the coffee table, watching the primetime evening news lineup, talking current events and nothing too personal. Talking about Hal’s work earlier – that little mention of tackling someone – put a damper on things. Brought up their harsh realities. So they keep it safe now.

The soap in the shower smells like sandalwood. Like Hal. The towel passes across Luke’s wet skin in a comforting way. It feels almost wrong to spit his toothpaste in the clean white porcelain of the sink.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Luke finds the bed in the sofa unfolded, outfitted with crisp white sheets and a pillow.

“Need anything?” Hal asks, lingering, expression a tangle of things Luke is too tired to decipher.

“No. This is perfect,” he says, meaning it.

Hal retreats to the bedroom.

Luke climbs under the covers and pulls up Skype on his tablet, calls Linda.

He isn’t surprised to see that she’s still in her office, still dressed as she had been before, nursing a tall mug of coffee that doubtless contains Jack Daniels.

“Took you long enough,” she says.

---