Shrink

27

"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm," says the concierge, baring a flashlight, as if to ward away the throng of guests crowding him. "please return to your rooms."
People are crowded all around the drawing room and the lobby, complaining loudly, their shapes stark against the harsh glare of the concierge's flashlight as it waves frantically around.
I turn to Sweets, who's still on the couch.
"I'll help you back to your room," I say, gathering up our things and tucking his book under my arm before offering my hand.
He doesn't hesitate to take it and with some effort, I manage to hoist him up standing.
Wobbling, Sweets reaches around in the semi darkness as people begin to use their phone flashlights to illuminate the room. I take his arm and let it wrap around my shoulder, allowing him to use me like a crutch as we hobble out of the drawing room, past the lobby and down the hall to Sweets' room.
Fumbling with his key in the secluded darkness, Sweets gets the door unlocked and nudges it open with his injured leg's foot.
Helping him to sit on the bed that is similar to mine, I use my phone flashlight to get him settled.
"Do you want to stay?" Sweets blurts, as I turn towards the door.
The question hangs for a moment, suspended as I watch him struggle to sit up in bed comfortably.
"It might be less boring with someone to talk to," I concede, watching him grin as he scoots over, letting me sit down beside him, propped up with the ridiculous amount of pillows hotels provide. I put my phone down on the nightstand flashlight still on.
At once settled, I take a look around myself.
Though not long lived in, this room shows traces of Sweets in every detail, from the books stacked on the bedside table, to the jazz CD's piled on the dresser. My eyes finally land on him, as he sits a head taller, even as he's slouched.
Sweets is still in shorts, soccer shorts, I've noticed, and an old tee shirt that fits him rather snugly. His hair has grown unruly and longer since I first met him, and when his brown eyes meet mine, I don't look away.
He's watching me too.
"We haven't had an evaluation in a while," I blurt, and he looks at me quizzically, as if trying to gauge the nature of my statement.
"We haven't," he agrees slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
"I know I haven't been very straightforward with your questions," I continue. "but ask me anything. I'll tell you the truth, I promise."
He looks so curious, I can tell he has a million bouncing around in his skull, but he bites his lip as he tries to think of a good one to start with.
"Parents together?"
"Yep."
"Have any pets?"
"No, but my parents have a dog named Ollie that they rescued when I was a kid. She's a big boxer," I say, smiling despite myself as I remember her loping after me in our backyard, and trying to lick every inch of my face.
"Cute," Sweets comments. "Favourite cereal?"
"Lucky charms," I say sheepishly.
Sweets raises an eyebrow at my questionable choice.
"I have a sweet tooth," I defend, and the unintentional play on words floats between us momentarily before he groans at my terrible joke.
There's a sudden crack of thunder, and I jump. My reaction since childhood is to yank up the sheets over my head, cowering from the clatter.
Sweets pulls up the sheet and sticks his head in, forming a loose tent that crowns us both.
"Biggest fear?"
"People," I respond without hesitation.
He nods understandingly. The light casts a bluish hue due to the eggshell sheets.
"Favourite person at the Jeffersonian?"
"Hodgins," I say.
Sweets' expression droops somewhat, and even though he's trained not to show how he feels, I can tell my answer has hurt him.
"At the Jeffersonian," I counter. "obviously, I have a different person for each place. For the FBI office, it's Booth, for home, it's my brother, for Destiny's Attic, it's Angelo, and"—
"Where do I fit in?" Sweets interjects.
His face is intent, his brown eyes nearly consumed by his pupils.
I hesitate, my fingers finding my shirt cuffs.
I think of Sweets standing and watching me drink ridiculous amounts of coffee at work, Sweets off to the J. Edgar Hoover building to question suspects with Booth, Sweets sitting across from me, eating spaghetti, Sweets meeting my brother someday.. A fleeting thought of Sweets kissing Daisy crosses my mind, and I begin to pick at my sweater cuffs more fervently, prolonging my silence.
Sweets grabs hold of my hands to stop my picking, and he once again has my whole and undivided attention.
His lips are very pink.
"Everywhere," I murmur, feeling the pressure of his hands around mine for the first time.
His lips part, in astonishment, surprise, disgust, I don't know. My phone chooses that instant to die, the room thrown into darkness, sparing me my embarrassment.
His hands leave mine, and they feel so empty.
Suddenly, they're fumbling to hold my flushed cheeks, and his lips are pressed against mine.