47 Armand is Murdered by an Inkwell

August 14th - Tomorrow, tomorrow, oh god, tomorrow

As Finch drove away, I wondered if I should have done more. If I'd failed in my role as employer, educator, elder. There was clearly a correct way to have handled the situation with Robin and Skyler, but whatever it might have been lay well beyond my limited capabilities.

At least Lucas hadn't been there to see the mess I'd made of it.

Numb—but not at all pleasantly—I climbed the stairs and let myself into the dark, empty flat.

Of course it was empty. Whatever milkshake-related emergency Lucas was dealing with was obviously an all-nighter type of deal.

The miniscule victory of Ken—or, more specifically, the lack of Ken—was quickly drowned out by the screaming despair brought on by literally everything else. I could still feel the rough stranglehold of the panic attack around my throat, its weight on my chest, the hollowness of the flask in my pocket.

The itching void at the back of my throat.

Yes, I'd turned down Ken. But I hadn't made it through the bloody play, or been able to help Robin and Skyler. Had all but punted myself off the wagon, and just in time for the biggest event of my career. Just in time for ...

Lucas.

To not even show up.

And time was exactly what we were running out of. The con was Friday, tomorrow, and my flight out of Los Angeles was scheduled for Sunday.

If I didn't conduct myself properly in front of the world tomorrow, Drake House would not renew my contract, and I and my weird little comic would fade into obscurity.

And Lucas and I would have fully missed each other. Missed the chance to even begin to find out what this was between us. If anything. If there had been the slightest chance that it was what I hoped it was—something I couldn't fully articulate and hadn't had the audacity to imagine for myself, to allow myself to fully want—that chance was long gone. We were too late.

How was a man expected to withstand this kind of pressure? Let alone sober?

I reached for the bottle near my bed, then at the last moment grasped my phone instead and did the unthinkable.

I called Lakshmi.

"Demetrio, pet? What is it now?" There were traces of sleep in her voice, but she was clearly trying to rouse herself, narrowing her eyes at me. "How high's the water?"

My initial response was not much more than a whimper, but then I managed, "Well over my head."

She studied my face over the grainy video and sighed. "On the lash?"

I wanted to lie. I failed. "Aye."

My brilliant, endlessly compassionate agent rolled her eyes up at the ceiling in what initially seemed like a bid for divine patience, but then she surprised me. "I'm sorry."

"You're what?"

"I should've believed you when you said you weren't ready." She shook her head, glaring at the floor. She seemed furious, but apparently not with me. "I know you've been under the cosh, but I thought a month was long enough to prepare, and that the workshop would be good practice—"

"It was!" I choked. "The workshop's been lovely! I just ..." Couldn't handle it without a crutch. The shame and disappointment burned in my throat and chest—I swallowed painfully and wished I could argue. Tell her she'd been right to push me.

"I can call the organizers and tell them you've had an emergency. We'll move up your flight—"

"No." I ran a hand down my face and then left it over my mouth. She was right. I couldn't do this—at least not on my own. "Does ... does that mean what I think it means? For the comic?"

Her silence—the moment of hesitance—was answer enough. "Forget that. If you're harming yourself, pet—"

"I'm not." This lie came easily. "I'm just ... being a wonk. I—I am capable of human interaction. It's not as bad as it looks. I've got it under control, I—"

"What time is it by you?" she cut me off. "How's this for a deal? Take the next few hours to think on it, and if I don't hear from you again by midnight, I'll make the call."

I swallowed again. Three hours. I could already smell the acetone stink of alcohol leaving my body via sweat glands. I couldn't reasonably make the argument that a little nip would steady my nerves—anything more at this point would lead to a good old-fashioned blackout.

Accountability, Demetrio, consequences and bloody mindfulness.It was time to rejoin the land of the living and upwardly mobile, even if it was only as a second-class citizen. I wanted to reassure her that she wouldn't have to make the call, but what left my mouth was: "I'm meeting someone there. At the con."

Lakshmi raised an angular brow. "Hopefully, you'll be meeting loads of someones."

"No, I mean—" What did I mean? "Never mind." The heat pulsed in my face, and I almost wished we were talking about me being a souse again.

"This is the mystery flatmate, Lucas Barclay, yeah?" She smiled.

I didn't confirm it, but I didn't need to.

"Take the night, Demetrio," she said gently. "I don't want you to feel you've been stitched up with the con. If need be, we can handle the heat from Drake House; there are other ways to survive in this business. Just look after yourself."

I nodded mutely, worrying at my bottom lip. "I'll think about it."

"And take a shower. You probably reek."

I grumbled a goodbye and hung up on her, stripped off, then sat on the edge of the bed as god made me and held my head between my hands.

Three hours. I could make it three hours. And then another ten. And through the convention—through the talk—

My stomach dropped and my gorge rose. Lumbering to my feet, I lost my balance, and stepped directly onto an inkwell that had lain in wait for me on the floor near the bed.

It shattered, and shards of glass buried themselves into my foot.

I shrieked and fell backward onto the bed. The blood and ink beaded and bled together on the carpet in patterns that at any other time would have struck me as beautiful. As it was, I sat up and pulled my foot toward me, intending to yank the glass out of it. Unfortunately, the blood and ink which obscured the wounds made that impossible. Gritting my teeth, I managed to lever myself to my good foot and hopped around the puddle toward the door.

Dripping a red-and-black trail, I limped my way down the corridor to the toilet. My whimpering and swearing echoed off the tile, interrupted by the squeak of my skin meeting the porcelain of the tub. I turned on the tap and shoved my foot under it, leaning backward and gritting my teeth against the cold water and pain.

So caught up was I in my own agony and stupidity that I didn't hear the front door open or footsteps padding down the hall.

"Oh my god, are you okay?"

I glanced up into a pair of startling green eyes and realized several horrific, world-ending things at once.

First: that a man was standing in the doorway. A very dirty man, with mud on his face and bits of hay in his hair.

Second: that man was Lucas.

Third was, of course, that I was sitting on the edge of the tub, cradling a foot which was steadily streaming blood, completely naked.

"Gnnrk!" I made a mad grab for a towel and threw it across my lap, trying to pretend that my whimpers of pain hadn't turned into panicked croaks.

"Here, put pressure on that." Lucas's voice—strong and commanding—briefly snapped me out of myself, and I even caught the second towel he threw my way. I did, however, continue staring at him in shock.

"What are you—"

Lucas didn't even glance up as he hastily washed his hands. "We need to stop the bleeding. Pressure. Now."

I did my best to obey, watching numbly as he shook the water off his hands, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then reached into the medicine cabinet for what appeared to be a first-aid kit and a large pair of tweezers.

I gulped despite myself. "What are you doing with that?"

Lucas crouched beside me, set the open kit on the floor beside him, and took hold of my foot. He pressed briefly on the towel and wrapped it into a tourniquet around my ankle. "We'll need to get the glass out."

I tried to remember how to breathe, fidgeting and grinding my teeth as more pressure was applied. "Just forget it, I'll go to a doctor."

"My dad was a pediatrician—he taught me first aid." Lucas's brow remained furrowed, his mouth tight, and eyes fierce.

When the bleeding appeared to have stopped, he examined the wounded area and let out a relieved sigh. "You were lucky. These glass shards are pretty sizeable."

I grasped desperately for balance and anything resembling coherence. "Really," I panted, "you don't have to."

Lucas rolled his eyes as he carefully extracted the first shard of glass with the tweezers. "Don't be a baby," he muttered.

I tried to keep my silence as he worked, with only the occasional squeak of pain as a piece of glass was removed.

Eventually, Lucas leaned back on his heels and inspected my foot again. "There. That's all of it."

I let out a hiss. Sweat prickled over every inch of my skin. "Bloody hell ..."

Lucas stood and disposed of the glass shards, then grabbed a bottle of antiseptic from the cabinet, along with a handful of gauze bandages.

He looked back at me and smiled, likely amused by the exasperation on my face. "Almost done, I promise. I just need to patch you up." He swabbed and dabbed all around the heel of my foot, shushing me gently as I continued to pathetically keen.

To finish, he wrapped several bandages around the area and gingerly ran his fingers down the edges of the gauze to smooth it down. "All right, good as new. The cuts weren't deep enough to need stitches, so you'll be fine. You might want to take some anti-inflammatories and be careful not to lean too much weight on that foot for a few days," he instructed and, standing back up, he cleaned the work area, and re-sanitized the tweezers.

I stared at his back wordlessly for a few moments, then managed to clear my throat. "This wasn't ... urm ... well, you didn't have to, errngh ... wasn't necessary ..."

He glanced back at me, eyes narrowing over a small grin. "Pretty sure that was extremely necessary."

I looked away, swallowing thickly. "Urghh ... thanks. For, um, er ... for kn-knowing what you were doing."

"You're welcome." Lucas walked back over, kneeling to retrieve the discarded bloody towel. "I'm just glad I was here."

The words hung heavily in the air. A thick silence fell, and I watched those stunningly green eyes widen.

I'm here. He's here.

We're both HERE. NOW.

Lucas swallowed and slowly brought his gaze up to meet mine. Everything had happened so fast that he'd clearly barely even registered who I was.

"Hi," he said softly.

I shifted wretchedly on my porcelain perch. "Hullo."

Lucas dropped his gaze, and despite myself, I started fiddling with my towel. The last vestige of my decency. Lucas's eyes followed the movement.

Then he leapt to his feet and cleared his throat, cheeks going visibly pink even under the layer of dirt. "I should go— I mean, things to do ..."

I shut my eyes tight. "Yeah. I should, uh, find some clothes. Erm."

I kept them closed even as I heard him mumble a goodbye and hurry out of the room, and then the front door slamming shut.

I remained frozen on the edge of the tub for what seemed like an hour.

That did not just happen.

That could not have just happened.

Lucas had not walked in on me injured and in, to put it delicately, a state of dishabille.

He had not tenderly seen to my wounds while I had scrambled to hide both pain and certain bits of my anatomy. I had not whimpered and fidgeted like a child, and he had not shushed me like a benevolent nanny.

I had not been naked, and he had most definitely not been handsome.

And smelling strongly of horse.

That would have been very strange, if that had happened.

Which it hadn't.

Because if absolutely any of it had happened, there was absolutely no way for me to avoid ritual suicide at this point.

After an eternity or so, I got up off the side of the tub and arranged the towel properly around my hips. Then I gingerly tested my gauze-wrapped foot. The dressing Lucas had applied held and dulled the pain to a degree I had no reason to expect. I limped over to the sink to wash the blood and ink off my hands.

I happened to glance up at the mirror and immediately thoughts of ritual suicide returned. I was drenched in sweat, hair clumped and standing on end, face unshaven and still a glowing, incandescent red. These were not ingredients that added up to sexy.

I looked like a man who had, quite recently, had a mass of glass in his foot.

I washed my face and hands, smoothed back my unruly hair, and was about to consider and choose between the various forms of suicide available to me, when my mobile chimed from the bedroom. I limped sadly back down the corridor, found it in the pocket of a discarded pair of jeans, and then leaned against the door.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't bring myself to look at the message.

What if it was Lucas?

What if it was Lucas saying he no longer wanted to meet tomorrow? That he'd changed his mind and there was really no reason for us to try to meet since, technically, we already had.

The bottle of Wild Turkey winked at me from its place by the bed.

My lungs felt too large to fit inside my chest. They were trying to climb up my throat. I held up the phone, gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and opened one eye.

It was a reminder I'd set myself.

One and a half hours. Ninety minutes till midnight. Ninety minutes in which to let Lakshmi know whether I'd decided to do my job and fulfill my obligations at the convention. All of that—the entire horror show complete with blood, nudity, and Lucas—hadn't even taken a full two hours.

Careful to keep weight off my injured foot, I placed one hand over my face and took a deep breath through my nose, sliding down to the floor.

One and a half hours to find both my courage and the sticking place. I'd thoroughly bollocksed my chances with Lucas, but I could still make things work with Drake House. I could still show and be something other than a complete and utter waste of funds and long-term investment.

I could do it anyway, Demetrio.