Chapter 3

The morning dawned crisp and sharp, brittle gold, sea-scented, salt-edged. They got up and got dressed. Colby, without prompting, started coffee for everyone, and also made breakfast: eggs in approximately six different ways, and ricotta pancakes, and cranberry-walnut quick scones. Those were delicious, as usual.

They got Jason's father into a car, and off to the hospital. Right on time.

Allie stayed home, in part to study and in part because they were out of space in the car. But she'd be a phone call away.

The nurses were kind. Everyone was kind. They whisked Luca away promptly, as scheduled. They said it'd be a couple of hours, at least.

Routine. Everyday. Simple enough. Jason knew all that. He knew.

He found a seat near his mother, in the waiting room. The room was nice—the entire hospital was nice, new and clean and shining—and the chairs were decently comfortable, though not large enough. He stopped trying to adjust his weight after something in one arm-rest creaked alarmingly.

Donatella, serene and unflappable, had brought a book: a chef's memoir of living in France. She looked up at him and smiled. Reassurance. Motherly.

Of course, Jason thought: of course his mother was right, they'd done all this before, it really wasn't that big a deal…

The small insistent scratch behind his heart didn't listen. It wanted, helplessly, to make everything okay.

He got up. He paced.

He found coffee. He brought it over in case anyone wanted some. And then he found sugar, because the coffee required it.

He tried to balance on the edge of his seat, instead of becoming gradually compressed between arm-rests. This did not work.

He drummed fingers on the chair-arm. The chair sympathized, but couldn't help. It couldn't even make itself any bigger.

He got up again. Hovered next to Colby, who'd curled up with his laptop in the chair next to Jason's own. "Want more coffee? Sugar? Food? Anything?"

"Love," Colby said, looking up. "Would you mind reading this scene over for me? Tell me if you think it's too confusing, with so many characters interrupting each other." In a pale teal jacket and a darker blue shirt and casual jeans, with rumpled cocoa-wave hair, he was a thin bright spot of color: a stray bit of beauty in a beige hospital waiting room.

Jason knew exactly what his husband was doing, couldn't say no to Colby asking for something, and sat back down. The chair growled a warning. "From where? Here?"

"The scene before that, if you want context. The family finding out about his secret first marriage, and the money, and the revelations. Establishing secret motives."

Jason did some reading. Paused. Said a line or two aloud in his head. Reread, letting his lips shape them.

"Yes," Colby said, "right there, I thought so too, but then I thought it might work, if that's the right effect, a sort of cacophony, everyone talking over everyone else…"

"If you want to film it that way, maybe. But it's still a lot. I like all your dialogue here, though, I don't want you to cut any lines…"

"What if I move these two earlier, so it's a bit less all at once?"

"Earlier?"

They went through Colby's revised dialogue, quiet, in the corner. They had the waiting room to themselves; no one came in to notice two famous actors testing rhythms and lines and a murder mystery.

Time passed, as time did.

And then, suddenly, the world opened up again, as a tall doctor appeared, smiling. He said, "Everything went just fine, would you like to come see him now?" and Donatella put down her book with relief behind her eyes, and Jason clutched Colby's hand, and exhaled.

* * * *

They stayed another night. The hospital was keeping Jason's father for a day in any case, and arranging for physical therapy, rehabilitation, recovery, all of that. Jason took many notes—mostly reminders of what he already knew, but just in case—and asked about medications, prescriptions, timelines, diet, everything he could think of.

His father threatened to never let him drive the Aston Martin again. Jason said, "I'll print out the physical therapy checklists and recommended exercises when we get home, with illustrations," and his father said, "Son, I'll have your mother show Colby those baby kitten Halloween costume photos," and Jason stopped talking.

He'd print the exercise checklists out anyway. With a helpful schedule.

Colby, coming back into the hospital room with coffee for everyone, didn't ask the question but looked at Jason, clearly having heard the very end of the Halloween-related threat.

Jason muttered, "Don't ask," and accepted dark roast with cinnamon and macadamia-nut flavors, and tried again to adjust his size versus yet another ubiquitous hospital chair-menace.

"Oh," said his mother, "Jason was an adorable kitten, that was his first Halloween, you know, only a baby, and I do love cats but we could never have one, allergies and all, so Luca and I thought, you know, what if we made him the cutest little kitty, with ears and a tail…"

"Mom." Jason attempted, without success, to bodily disappear into a cup of caffeine.

"I'm sure," Colby said, extremely politely, with absolutely delighted eyes, "he was the most adorable kitten anyone's ever seen. Are there pictures?"

"Yes," Jason said. "Tell me where they are, so I can find them for you."

His mother pointed her own cup his direction. "Not even subtle. Try harder."

Colby, halfway through sitting down next to Jason, hid an outright laugh behind a desperate gulp of coffee. Possibly he was continuing to be polite, or he wasn't sure about acceptable reactions in a family dynamic he was still learning. Or both; Jason couldn't quite tell, but—knowing Colby—both was the most likely answer.

"You can laugh," he told his husband. "As long as you don't get to see the tail."

Colby tried to inhale coffee, sputtered, gave up. "Please?" He leaned a shoulder against Jason's, after: relaxing.

"I'm borrowing your car for a week," Jason said to his father. "A week. While you can't chase me down to get her back."

Luca narrowed both eyes at him. "Who says I can't? I'll send Nicky after you."

Colby murmured into his coffee, too quietly for anyone but Jason to hear, "I do appreciate seeing your tail."

"You'll all thank me when you have organized appointment calendars and automatic prescription refill reminders," Jason retorted, and then, under his breath, to Colby, "I don't even know what that means!"

Colby put up both eyebrows. "I thought you liked it when I—"

"Sweet and innocent," Jason muttered, "in what universe?" and took his husband's coffee and tried that one. Colby had mysteriously acquired really good coffee, not the hospital imitation sadness. His tasted, improbably, like apples and cream. "Where'd you find this?"

"A very helpful nurse had a recommendation, a local place. Her son works there. His name's Behrad; he came by and made a delivery." Colby borrowed Jason's cup in turn. He'd keep that one without protest if Jason wanted to trade; Jason knew he would, and therefore traded back. Colby added, "I might've given him quite a large tip, but he mentioned he was in college and studying comparative literature…"

"Did you pay for a college kid's books for the year?"

"Er…"

"More?"

"I did ask that he share with his coworkers…obviously they all helped prepare everything for us, so…"

"Oh my God," Jason said. "You paid for all their books, didn't you? I mean, I love you." The hospital room, though relentlessly beige and too small for his shoulders, was warm and safe. Monitors made reassuring beeps, steady, unwavering.

His parents were gazing at Colby as if adoring their son-in-law all over again. His father was grinning at them both from the bed, in fact, with a look that said that Colby, at least, was welcome to borrow the Aston Martin any time.

Dark roast and cinnamon lay across Jason's tongue. Colby had taken his hand. The world, at this moment, shook itself back toward simple. Loosening its shoulders. Continuing to spin.

"So," he said, trying to stretch out a leg against the grip of the chair. "When are we meeting with your physical therapist?"

* * * *

They ended up lingering late into the next evening, as well. Jason wanted to be present, to help, when his father came home; it was practical, given that he was the largest and strongest. And the most organized. And the best at driving them carefully back, mid-afternoon, after final instructions and discharge paperwork.

He'd learned from the best, after all.

His father, being his father, had thought about a practical family utility vehicle, and then had bought a rapier-quick Alfa Romeo. Jason approved of the speed and responsiveness, but had argued at the time about passenger comfort, his grandmother, and his father's cane. He'd given in, then; he had all those thoughts again, on the way home from the hospital.

He didn't voice them. No point, not now. But he did take the next left turn slowly enough to make his father demand, "Who taught you how to drive?"

"You did." Jason stopped at a stop sign. Neatly. Fully. "And you told me to think about safety first."

"Betrayed by my own flesh and blood!"

"Yep. Still not going faster."

Colby, again, was trying not to laugh. Good, Jason thought. Good.

He got them all home and protected, without incident. Success. An achievement. One thing complete: taken care of.

Like the tidy stacks of paperwork he made on the small kitchen table. Like the lists of phone numbers. Like the copies of scheduled appointments, dates, times, he made for himself and Allie. Everything handled. Prepared. Arranged.

His father was fine. He knew that. He knew.

He did not like hospitals.

He didn't like bandages. Surgical tape. IV drips. The scents. The washed-out lighting. The pain in his father's movements—or the memories of Colby lying still and pale in a different hospital, in England, while Jason had clung to his hand—

Older memories, a different time and place, rigging and a body beside a stunt-dive tank, and Jason himself running over, because he'd been working on a different set, same lot, and he and Charlie should've been meeting for lunch, should've been—

The line of the refrigerator door blurred. His face felt cold.

Home, he thought. Home, his parents' house. And no one was dying today, no one had fallen from a cliff onto rocks, his father was here and sitting up and making jokes about becoming a bionic man, and Colby was here and awkwardly graceful as ever, a long-legged lynx always on the brink of either startled poise or startled tripping-over. Wearing the wedding ring that matched Jason's, a promise.

He shut the fridge door, remembered that he'd been getting out a can of orange soda for Allie, took two long breaths, opened it again. Dutifully made a delivery to his little sister's nest of bar exam prep and cookie-crumbs, in her old bedroom. She'd left the door open so that she could pop out when needed, especially for reheated lemon chicken and black pepper pasta and garlic bread.

She said, taking the can, "Thanks." Her eyes were those of a future lawyer, and also his younger sibling, his family: clever and quick, the same deep brown he saw in the mirror, with the same thick eyelashes. "Colby's keeping Dad company. Mom's on the phone with the horde of aunts."

Jason couldn't figure out which of these statements to answer first. He'd known Colby had been talking to his father, when Jason himself had gone to print out some labels for pill containers; and then he'd had to find Nonna's knitting needles, and put away the milk someone'd left out, and answer Allie's shout about what soda they had in the house…"Um. Okay. Maybe I should go and—"

"Jay. Sit down."

The heap of books and notes and practice exams did not admit this, in practice. Jason shifted weight, in place.

His parents had sort of halfway redecorated Allie's room; the curving princess bed had gone, replaced by a more adult-guest-friendly version, and the girl-fronted LA rock band posters were gone too. But the old star lamp remained, and a music-playing jewelry box on the dresser, and her old bookshelf, mostly holding nonfiction and memoirs and whatever hadn't fit in her law student apartment.

She'd been a Colby Kent fan for years, before everything. Adoring his movies, his roles, his public persona, the generosity that baked birthday cakes for castmates and volunteered with children's literacy programs. She'd been running blogs, sharing pictures, helping arrange art and fanfiction and charity challenges. That'd been before Jason and Colby had ever even met, much less worked together; he knew Allie had mostly stepped back from the fandom by then, just because of time and law school, though she still checked in on occasion.

He also knew she'd talked to Colby at least once about it, in private. He knew because Colby had been amused, and had told him after: they'd agreed, he'd said, that it was a compliment, even an honor, and Allie was welcome to sometimes drop back in to share certain information about Colby Kent's upcoming projects or interviews and appearances, without revealing her source.

She'd also—with permission—shown Colby some carefully curated fan art: himself and Jason, in Regency-era and classic fantasy-hero and seventies glam-rock costumes, baking and dancing and reading books together. One fan artist had reimagined them as playful kittens and puppies and dragons.

Colby had been thrilled by the love and the creativity. He'd asked for copies of some favorites. And had asked whether there was any way he could thank the artists, because of course he wanted to. Because he was himself, excited about fantasy and art and creation, hopeful about inspiring people, and Jason loved him so much, forever.

"Colby's fine." His sister's gaze, right now, was disconcertingly insightful. "They're both working, I think. Keeping each other company. Dad's catching up on email, and Colby was looking up historic New England filming locations. Dad asked what kind of car he wanted your detective to drive, in the movie."

"He would ask that." He wondered what Colby had said. His husband could identify the year and vineyard of an earth-shatteringly expensive wine with one sip, and evaluated cars on the basis of whether or not they were friendly and welcoming and pretty. "Which aunts?"

"All of them, I think. I'll pick up Aunt Coco in the morning, when she gets in from Vancouver."

"With the traffic, you should leave by—"

"Before nine. I know, Jay."

"Can I…do you need anything?" He considered the mountain range of notes, suggested, "Study break beer?"

Allie laughed. "Yeah, actually, thanks. Just one."

Jason went, and returned. The beer was local, a decent maple amber ale; he handed over one, and clinked it with his. Allie moved the largest textbook he'd ever seen, making a square of space on the end of her bed, over the sunset-wave quilt. "Sit."

Jason looked at the amount of space. Shook his head. Sat down on the floor instead, leaning back against his sister's bed. Had a drink, and shut his eyes for a second, tasting rich dark flavor.

Allie snorted at him. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes," Jason said, sitting up more. "What? Can I help?"

Alessandra outright snickered, which was moderately insulting. But then her eyes got softer. "Oh, Jay. Your face. Look, you're happy, right?"

"I am." He leaned back again, gingerly. Met his sister's question head-on. "More than I ever thought I would be. I'm not just saying that. It's like…I never knew I could feel like this. Like I wake up every morning excited about everything. Even if we're doing three A.M. night shoots in the rain. Or if his screenplay makes me sing a fucking seventies rock ballad. On camera."

"You were actually pretty good. Not Colby good, but not bad."

"Thanks, brat."

"Any time." Allie saluted him with the beer. "I never knew that. That you weren't exactly…I mean, you were happy, I think. But not like this."

"Yeah." Jason shrugged at her from the floor. Colby could've explained it better, probably. "I thought…I don't know. I thought I pretty much was exactly where I was going to end up. The action thrillers, the B-movies…the casual kind of…um, dating people, y'know."

Allie nodded.

"And I had fun, it was fun, but there was never anybody I ever thought, you know, maybe forever…and then work always got in the way, and life, and whatever. And that was fine. I was fine. Like you said. And then I met Colby. And did Steadfast with Colby. And everything just…" He had to laugh. "Like thunderstorms. Electric. Was that what you wanted to ask?"

"Um," Allie said. "Sort of. With Colby, was it…I mean, you had chemistry, of course, anyone who looks at the two of you can see the sparks, but was it like that from the start?"

Jason exhaled. "Honestly? Yes. No. I don't know."

Allie scooted closer, surprised. A notebook slid considerately out of the way.

"Well. Yeah, it was. But also no." He needed another drink. "The chemistry was so…I think we both knew. The way he looked at me, the way we just…everything fit. Everything lit up. We got each other—I mean, the way you trust another actor, in a scene, but even more. Like we could be more, could do more. Together. But I thought—I was wrong—that he had to be pretending. Fake. That nobody could be that good, that nice, and mean it. I even said it out loud. And then I thought I'd fucked everything up and he hated me."

"He didn't."

"No." Jason picked at his bottle's label with a thumb. "He was…he heard what I said. About him. But he didn't…" He didn't know what Colby thought. That realization shocked him into forgetting words, for a second or two.

He'd apologized for what he'd said, and Colby had nodded and accepted that. But they'd never really had a conversation about it. "He decided it didn't matter, because we were so good on camera, with that screen test. He knew it. Everyone knew it. So he made the decision that was best for the movie. I don't think he did hate me, really. That part was in my own head."

He picked at the label again. Colby had been even more kind—and even more nervous—around him, after bringing him onto the project. Trying not to inflict his presence on Jason more than necessary. Vanishing, pixie-like, after meetings and table reads. Bringing pastries for the cast and crew, that first morning on set. Ensuring Jason had one.

Colby himself had kept forgetting to eat. Had shown up to set carrying the memories of bruises, of unwanted touches and worse, healed over but not too distant yet. Had gone white as bone the time Jason had accidentally trapped him in place against a ship's rail, during an early scene.

He heard the ragged edge to his own inhale. He finished half his beer. "He told me once that he wasn't scared of me. That he thought I wouldn't hurt him. I don't know why. I don't know what I did—I mean, thank God I did it, whatever I did right." Allie knew some of it—she knew Colby had been hurt, and it'd been personal, and it'd been bad—but not the specifics. He left it at that. "That's what I tried to do. Whatever I could, that wouldn't hurt him."

"And you did the right things." His sister sounded certain of that, sure and fierce. Protective, even: Jason recognized the emotion. "I know you, Jay. You always want to save people. You wouldn't hurt anyone. Not ever. I know Colby saw that too. The second he met you."

"Yeah, well," Jason said. He thought so. He hoped so. He was sure that he belonged with Colby, in this bright and shining life they'd fought for and fought to believe in, together; he knew that, down in his bones, with everything he was. Some memories, some regrets—vicious hurts he wished Colby had never had to go through—but no doubts left. Not now.

And his wedding ring lay gold on his hand, and Colby had fallen asleep in his arms, the night before. "Was that…I mean, is that what you wanted to know? Whether I was a dick, to start? I kind of was. He forgave me."

"Well," Allie said, wry, "I haven't done that, at least…"

"Wait," Jason said, bolting upright. "Who? When? Name? Age? Phone number?"

Allie leaned down from the bed just to punch him lightly on the shoulder. "Taylor, law school, twenty-seven, nice try."

"Taylor what, and when do I meet them?"

"Not until you're going to not be weird. Which, okay, I get that that's hard for you." Allie poked him in the shoulder again, same spot. "And yeah, it's they, thanks for that. They're…great, honestly. Funny. Smart. I just…we've been hanging out a lot. Not in our study group. More like…only us. But I don't know if…I haven't had the time to date. Anyone. I've got the bar coming up, and now Dad, and…anyway I just wanted to know. How you knew. When you knew."

"Hmm."

"Never mind!"

"No, tell me. Tell me everything. Taylor. Law school. What kind of law?"

"Environmental. They care so much—it's inspiring, and I—" Allie's cheeks went pink. "Anyway. Thanks for telling me about yours. Especially about you embarrassing yourself."

"Don't thank me," Jason said contentedly. "I haven't even met them yet. I'll come up with a list. Important questions. What your older brother needs to know."

"I'm not sure you get to meet them. Maybe I should ask Colby."

"Good idea. He's good at figuring out characters." Jason paused, though, and said, more seriously, "Thanks for telling me."

"Kinda thought you might be more help."

"Sorry."

"No, actually, you were." Allie flopped back over onto her bed, and waved a hand at the ceiling, presumably at Jason. "I want one of your rum cakes. Bring me food. No, you did help. What you said, about being happy…about the way everything went from just being fine to feeling excited, no matter what, because you got to be together…yeah. That."

"Oh," Jason said. "Oh, well. Yeah. All of that. Then I'm happy for you, brat. And I hope they're good enough for you. My genius lawyer kid sister." He hopped up. Collected beer bottles. "Pass the bar exam first."

"Well, of course," Allie said, in a well, obviously tone. "They know that, too. Rum cake. Or three. Three cakes."

Jason went and foraged and returned, as asked. And thought, while cleaning the counter—there'd been some crumbs—about falling in love. About how it happened, and when, and how unexpected it might be, and how true.

His parents were in love. They always had been, through restaurant openings and stunt drives, flaming car jumps and flaming soufflés. Everyone knew that; everyone saw that, plain as sunlight. Jason knew that; he'd always known, always seen it, a model of joy in each other, a shared life.

He wanted Allie to be happy. He wanted everyone to be happy.

For some reason he had to stop and swipe a fleck of water away from his face.

Colby reappeared, having put his laptop away. His face was quiet, expressive as ever, open and warm and a little worried; his eyes eased, finding Jason's.

Jason came over, put both arms around him, and kissed him. Soundly. With a hand in Colby's hair, with a quick slip of his tongue into Colby's mouth: assertion, affirmation.

Colby melted against him, pleased at the claiming, hands sliding up Jason's back. Not scared, and not holding back.

"Hey," Jason said against his ear. "How're you?"

"I'm fine," Colby said, and somehow that word choice set off aching silver bells in Jason's chest. "Even better, after that. Lovely weather." His sweater today was violet, stretchy, fitted, with too-long sleeves; they fell past his wrists, over his hands, leaving only his fingertips visible. "Everything all right?"

"I think Allie's in love."

All the oceans of Colby's eyes shone. "Is she? I'm so happy for her—she's so wonderful, of course, she deserves someone equally wonderful."

"Romantic."

"So are you." Colby kissed him, this time: initiating, quick and playful. "I know you are." His eyes did look tired, in the way of an introvert having spent two and a half days with Jason's family.

"I love you," Jason sighed. "I'll tell you about Allie's Taylor later. Do you want to go home tonight?"

"Do I…" Colby reworded the question mid-asking. "Do you?"

"Babe…" That was generous, and considerate, and perfectly Colby; it was also just a little tiring in a different way, not because he didn't want to take care of Colby but because he did, and in light of that conversation with Allie, he felt kind of opened up, raw, reminded of his own oldest careless moments with Colby's heart. And that was on top of everything, on top of the countertops and the checklists and his father's prescriptions, and the physical therapy appointments starting next week…

Jason shut his eyes, kept his arms around his husband. Breathed in, and out. "We can go home."

Colby nodded.

"Okay. Let's go pack up."

That meant Jason himself being done in ten minutes, everything folded or rolled or zipped up, and Colby poking tentatively at a scarf, a shoe, a sweater-sleeve, and eyeing the bag's zipper with the expression of someone silently bargaining with the universe. At this point Jason nudged him out of the way and took over, at least for that one. Colby meekly rearranged books and his laptop, in his shoulder bag, and said, "Thank you?"

"I love that you think you have infinite space in an overnight duffel."

"You don't really love that."

"I kind of do." He looped an arm around his husband, drew Colby closer. "I promise."

"Well," Colby said. "If you say so. Is there anything else we should do, before we go?"

"Probably. Let's see."

His mother caught them putting bags by the door, and said, "Oh, good."

Jason snorted. "Thanks, Mom. We weren't leaving quite yet."

"Oh, you know we're not trying to get rid of you." Donatella made a small shooing motion at him. "But it's getting late, we're all set here, and the two of you should go home, get some rest, relax. Your father and I have all the food, all the helping hands, we'll call if we need anything, go on."

"But," Jason protested.

She patted his arm. "I know you want to help. Our son, saving the world." Her gaze swung to Colby; she amended, "Both our sons. Colby, you take him home and make him rest."

"I promise," Colby agreed gravely. "Please do let us know if you think of anything you might need."

"Oh, you and Jason," Donatella said, "perfect for each other," and beamed at him. "We'll see you in the morning."

"We'll leave after I finish labeling all your casseroles," Jason said. It was a compromise. He was trying.

In the kitchen—his mother had gone off to check on Allie and see whether she would like some cannoli, because food meant love—he finished neatly affixing labels to various dishes, with the date and the ingredients, in case that mattered for anyone's diet or allergies. He found refrigerator space, and freezer space, and fit everything in, with attention to order.

He rearranged the bottom fridge drawer one more time. Easier access. More clearly visible labels.

He did the dishes that wouldn't or shouldn't go into the dishwasher, not that there were many. He started the dishwasher. He cleaned the countertops again after, so his mother wouldn't have to worry about that.

He contemplated the stove. Maybe he should scrub that.

"Jason." Colby finished putting coffee mugs away. Moved into his field of vision. Not asking, not making demands.

Colby had pushed up both sleeves to deal with the dishes, and his hair was standing up, because he'd run a hand through it. For some reason that sight hit Jason's heart squarely in its fractured center. His Colby, arms casually bare, exposed. Revealed to the world. Here in their family kitchen.

"I know," he said. "I know, I know, we should go…Mom told us to, they're fine, you heard…and you should, um, get some rest, too, I know you're doing okay but we did say we were going…"

"Love." Colby touched Jason's cheek, a brush of affection: calligrapher's fingers, palm, thumb stroking Jason's cheekbone. Jason tilted his head into the touch, needing it, aching for it, chest too tight and too empty all at once. The kitchen folded in around them, wood-toned and brimming over with edible well-wishes.

Colby stepped in closer, slid his hand to the nape of Jason's neck, tipped their heads together. "Yes, we both heard your mother. They've got this handled. And your father was even answering emails, earlier. Something about classic muscle cars and a recommended stunt driver for that bridge jump."

"I know he was."

"Mmm. And I know you know. They've got enough food for several armies, you've made that lovely color-coded schedule of visitors and pain medication and the physical therapist's appointments, your sister's here tonight, and we do live twenty minutes away."

"Right, yeah." Jason held onto his husband, leaned against Colby's tall slim strength for a moment, drank it in and let it help him stand.

Colby held him, and held onto him: secure and sweet and solid as fresh-baked bread. Jason felt his eyes prickle; he tucked his face into Colby's neck, and exhaled, and breathed warmth in. "I'm okay. It's just…"

"Yes." Colby held him close. "You want to fix everything. My splendid weary knight, trying to rescue the world, when the world's hurting and you want to make it better, because you love it so very much. It's all right, you know. You can set the shield down for a moment, and let the rest of us take it up."

"If I leave," Jason said, muffled, "if we leave, and I'm not here, and…I don't know…"

"Yes, I see." Colby's fingers kneaded the back of his neck. Jason's next inhale shook with too many emotions.

He couldn't come apart, though. Not here, not in his parents' kitchen, not when he needed to be organized and helpful and comforting, when his parents needed that, when Colby needed that, because someone had to keep track of medications and lasagnas and appointments and Aunt Coco's arrival from Vancouver tomorrow and Colby's anxiety around too many loudly physically affectionate people…

But Colby was holding him. Holding him up. Among fruit-baskets and garlic cheese twists and the low rumbling sounds of the dishwasher at work.

Colby said again, "I know, love. Let me take you home. We've got our phones, we can come back immediately if we need to, and your mother will be pleased that you've got some rest. She does worry about you, as well."

Jason wasn't sure he could move. He could stay right here, instead. Face buried in Colby's neck, Colby's hair brushing his skin. Not stirring. Tree-roots grown in deep.

Colby snuck a hand into Jason's pocket. Extracted the key to the Porsche. "Come on, love. We'll come by in the morning, I promise. As early as you'd like."

Jason pulled back, looked at him, couldn't find words.

"Shall we, then…" Colby held his hand, coaxed him out toward the door, kept the car key loosely in the other hand even when Jason made a feeble gesture at it. He paused to speak to Jason's mother, a good-night, a soft word of care and a promise to return tomorrow.

Donatella hugged him, and Colby hugged her right back; Jason took that demonstration of affection in with a sense of the surreal, distant and dreamlike. He let his mother hug him too. It felt nice.

His grandmother patted Colby's arm, and proclaimed, "You take care of my Jason, you know, like we said, you know what to do with him," while beaming. Colby nodded back solemnly, and promised, "I'll take excellent care of him, you have my word," and steered Jason into a coat and out the open door.

Jason said weakly, "What did Nonna tell you to do with me, exactly?" and looked at Colby's hand and the car key for a second. Soul-deep exhaustion clawed at his insides.

"She adores you, as do I. And I believe we do have lemons and brandy, as per that suggestion. No, I'm driving, you can relax."

"I can…if you want…"

"It's not as if I can't. You know—" Colby paused as Alessandra came out the door and down to the driveway and up to them. "Everything all right?"

"Great." Allie, bundled up in a big hot-pink blanket against midnight air, grinned at him. "I was going to tell you to take a casserole or two, out of the stockpile, but you'll be back tomorrow. And you don't need my help, anyway."

"Is Dad okay?" Jason said, automatic. "And are you? Did you want to talk more? Or if you need time to study—if you want us to pick up Aunt Coco tomorrow—"

"Jay," Allie interrupted, amused, "trust me, I got this, I'm a lawyer. Almost. Soon. And thanks for listening, earlier. I wanted to say that. I'll let you know how it goes." She also threw Colby a grin, clearly assuming Jason had told him. "And Dad's asleep, and it's all good. I can handle driving to the airport. Colby, take him home before he decides to stay up all night reorganizing the kitchen with color-coded labels for every spoon, or something."

Jason opened his mouth but couldn't protest. He had in fact had thoughts about making sure the pantry was optimally organized for ease of access and visibility, so that anything anyone might need would be right there and obvious.

"Yes, that's the plan." Colby had a hand on Jason's elbow. It felt good there. "Not the organizing, the going home for tonight. You've got my number, of course, and we'll be here the second you call. So just let us know if you need us, and we'll keep the phones at hand. We'll plan to come back over by, oh, eight-thirty, well before you'll need to head out to the airport, unless you tell us otherwise, I think?"

"Yep." Allie gave him a gentle fist-bump, then turned to hug Jason, and even ruffled his hair. "Go home, Jay. Listen to your husband. And to me. We're both always right, right?"

"Says who," Jason muttered, "which one of us spilled grape juice on Nonna's wedding quilt, that time," but he was also hugging his little sister and—horrifyingly—trying not to cry, so the sarcasm didn't land. "Thanks, brat."

"Go on." Allie let him go, with a nudge in the direction of Colby's arm and the car; she tucked her hands into the coat's pockets, grinning more. "See you in the morning."

* * * *

In the car, as they pulled out of the driveway, Jason glanced over at Colby. Weird, on this side. The passenger seat. Not in control.

Not that he needed to be. Colby had offered, in fact had decided, and had hopped right in and started the car.

Jason tipped his head back against the headrest, still looking at his husband. Colby glanced his way in reply, and tossed him a sympathetic sort of smile before looking back at the road. The Porsche glided smooth as silk down the road, under streetlight gleam and late-night California-hills slumber.

He knew Colby knew how to drive a car. Colby had multiple licenses, in at least two countries. That wasn't a worry. And worry wasn't even the word. Only an odd sense of imbalance, of things shifting, and not only literally, as Colby changed gears.

Jason liked driving. Which meant he generally did most of it, because Colby could if asked but didn't outright love it the same way, the thrill of the purr of an engine, the power and speed, directing and guiding it all. Colby also liked looking out at scenery, and Jason liked him being happy and easily distracted and wide-eyed at a large lush green tree or the cerulean expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

Right this second, though, his bones wanted to melt into the seat and release all their tension. Or—he eyed his husband some more, with a shimmer of paper-thin want—maybe he wanted to kiss Colby's wrist, right there, with the graceful motion in the turn of the wheel. Or he could take over the driving, because that was what he did, something he could do.

Or he could just sag against the seat and not move and be grateful that Colby obviously did have this handled, and was good at maneuvering the Porsche, neat and attentive and quick.

The emotions collided hard. They left Jason's head drained and confused, and decently tired, but also more grounded, deep inside. His Colby, taking care of him. Taking charge.

"Nearly home," Colby suggested at this point, which was optimistic—about a third of the way, Jason estimated—but that was also his husband trying to help.

Because Colby did that, and had always done that, even when they'd first met. When Colby had been so badly wounded himself, hiding it from everyone, but had fed the entire film crew and supported their children's school fundraisers, and had talked Jason through a shivery funeral-shroud dread of water and into a hotel swimming pool, the night before an on-camera water dive.

He reached over and set one hand on Colby's thigh. That earned him a smile, and Colby dropped a hand to rest on top, with a brief squeeze, before putting it back on the wheel.

The roads were empty, or nearly so, at this hour. The world existed in gold and ink. Pooled nighttime and aureate circles spilled from streetlights and scattered windows. The Porsche hummed along, a zephyr in the dark.

Almost home, Jason thought again; and felt Colby's leg under his hand, tangible and strong, swimmer's muscles under soft fabric, known and loved. He let the sensation in, and let it spread beneath his skin.