“Sorry,” Nick said, even though he wasn’t really. A little part of him, the part that was still stung at the thought of Andy, didn’t like the idea of anyone else seeing John in nothing but a towel, but that was stupid and he knew it.
He got up and they went inside; the wheeled cart was over by the door where John had left it. Nick carried the trays to the small table in the corner and laid out the food while John got dressed, then sat down with the newspaper that had been tucked between the trays. He didn’t really want to look at it, but he knew there’d be a lengthy story about the plane crash and he needed the information whether he wanted it or not.
“What’s that?” John asked, standing behind him with a hand on Nick’s shoulder as he opened the paper and found the story. “Oh.”
“Uh huh.” Forty-one deaths; he’d been wrong about that. The chaos in his dream hadn’t made an accurate head-count easy, but Nick’s stomach still clenched at the thought of it. “There weren’t any problems with the weather,” he said, even though John could read just as well as he could.
“No…” John sounded abstracted. “Says they’re assuming something mechanical, but won’t know for sure for a while, yet. Do you -- do you know, then? What happened? Or was it just your dad you saw?”
“I never saw him.” Nick turned his head and looked at John over his shoulder. “I had no idea it had anything to do with him until I got that phone call. God, that was less than two days ago.” It felt like they’d traveled at least a week in that time. “Do you think that’s why I was having the dream? Because of him?”
John blinked at him, looking puzzled. “Well -- aye, don’t you? Planes crash all the time -- bigger ones than this -- and you don’t get visions of them. And generally, you have to be close to where someone died to see their ghost or get one of those premonition flash things, so, aye, I’d say it was your dad that made the connection happen.”
He sat down and picked up the coffee Nick had poured for him, giving Nick a worried glance. “You’ll see him, won’t you?” he asked. “It’s why we came. He’s no claim on you, not after how he left you, but you won’t let his ghost walk if you can give him a chance at peace.”
“I don’t think I’ll have a choice,” Nick said. He probably needed the resolution with his father just as much as his father had; his biggest fear was that his dad wouldn’t be amenable to it. Ghosts weren’t always eager to work through things, no matter how necessary it was. “They might all be there. Everyone who died.”
It had been a long time since he’d voluntarily walked onto the site of a serious disaster like this, and John had never seen him in that kind of situation. The ghosts who were ready to leave messages for loved ones were rarely patient enough to wait their turn, and trying to separate out one voice amongst a sea of them had pushed Nick into a state of near-catatonia more than once.
John glanced around the room and then over at Nick. “You’ll remember you promised you’d always tell me if there was one with us? Is there? Has it started?” He picked up the paper from the table, looking at the small map of the crash site. “It’s about ten miles north of us, I’d say.”
They’d picked up a car at the airport yesterday, so driving wouldn’t be an issue, and they had maps that the rental company had given them. The woman at the counter had seemed relieved to discover that Nick would be driving rather than John, whose accent had been immediately obvious, even in the little they’d needed to speak.
Nick realized he hadn’t answered John’s question, although his silence had probably been answer enough. “No, there’s no one here now. I think you’d be able to tell if there were.” Firmly reminding himself that he needed to eat, he poured syrup over his waffles and took a bite. “You need to eat, too, you know.”
“I can’t always tell,” John pointed out, although from Nick’s experience, John usually could, sensing them in the vague way a person afraid of cats could tell if one was in the room. “And don’t worry about me. I’m eating. See?” John loaded his fork with a wedge of waffle, topped off with a chunk of strawberry, and dripping with syrup and butter, and then took a bite that ended up with him mopping his chin and frowning at his sticky fingers. “Followed by another shower…”
“The best food’s usually messy,” Nick said distractedly, his eyes already drawn back to the newspaper story. He read it again from beginning to end, then sighed and folded up the paper, tossing it onto the bed and turning his attention toward his breakfast.
John had already half finished his and was nursing his second cup of coffee; he’d been quiet while Nick was reading, which Nick appreciated.
“I don’t know how this is going to go,” Nick said. “Being there, I mean.”
“It’ll be crowded. And usually you’ve been invited by the relatives, or you’re by yourself.” John eyed Nick. “You’re going to have to be careful, or you’ll have a crowd of idiots trailing around after you.”
That happened. Not as often as people sneering or getting angry with him for anything from blasphemy to taking advantage of the bereaved, but it happened. Ghost groupies, Matthew had called them, more approvingly than Nick had liked, but then, Matthew hadn’t just been his lover, had he? He’d been Nick’s manager, Nick’s agent. Nick’s buffer. John hadn’t had much, if any, experience with that part of what Nick did; it just hadn’t been an issue on a remote Scottish island.
Somehow, Nick thought it might be here.
He took one more bite of waffle and set down his fork; eating too much would be just as bad as not eating at all, and he didn’t want to have to deal with the consequences. “When stuff like this happens, the ghosts aren’t all that interested in waiting their turn to talk to me. Through me.” He was never sure which phrase was better. “I can get…kind of confused. It’s pretty overwhelming. I’m probably going to need you to keep people back, if you can, and to make sure I don’t do anything stupid.”
Stupid like walk into a wall, or walk into some angry relative’s fist, or fall flat on his face, all of which had happened at one time or other. When his brain was on overload like that, his eyes didn’t always transmit to his brain the way they should.
“I can do that. Keep people back.”
Nick hadn’t seen it himself, but he knew that Michael wasn’t the only one on the island who’d had a reputation for being the first into a brawl and the last one left standing. John was wiry, his muscles earned through work, not exercise, and Nick had a queasy feeling that John would probably enjoy punching someone who threatened Nick.
John’s mouth curled in a smile. “I won’t,” he said, reading Nick’s expression. “Go wading in, fists flying. And don’t tell me it’s not what you were thinking, because it was.” He stood and came around the table to Nick, crouching down beside Nick’s chair, his hands loosely clasped on his knees. “I promised you I wouldn’t get into fights, remember? When you saw the state of Michael’s face after the one in the bar? I’ll just be…charming,” he finished, nodding. “Aye. I’ll reason with them.” He stood in one smooth, easy movement, dropping a jaunty kiss on the top of Nick’s head. “And if they won’t listen to reason, and give you the space you need, I’ll…think of something.” He smiled, looking younger, happier, as if hearing that Nick needed him had given him a reassurance that Nick’s hug on the balcony hadn’t. “I’m a very resourceful man, did you not know that?”
“Of course I did,” Nick said, nodding and finishing off his cup of coffee. “You always have been.” It was true; John had accepted him almost immediately, not to mention accepting his abilities. It was something he’d never expected to have, someone who knew what he was and loved him despite it. No matter what had happened between them -- no matter what John had done, and Nick didn’t have any reason to think it was more than what he’d admitted to -- it was important that Nick remember that.
He’d never find another man like John, and he didn’t want to.
Standing up, Nick rubbed his forehead and moved to his suitcase to get out some clothes to change into.
Chapter Five
The land was scarred where the plane had crashed; deep swaths of burned trees and churned-up grass sketching out its final, brutal landing. John stared at it through the open car window, his heart thumping, his breath catching in his throat. He’d seen similar scenes on television; pitied, commented, and changed the channel, feeling a genuine, if fleeting sympathy, no more.
This was different. It was a terrible, ugly reality, from the blackened earth to the thick, rank stink of fuel and fire. He shuddered, swallowing down sickness as his mind gave him an image of how it must have been for them, falling out of the sky, the inside of the cabin filled with screams, the impact, the terror of surviving that only to feel the heat rise…
No one had survived. None. In a way, that seemed kinder. It would’ve been a hell of a lot to live with.
Forcing himself to look away from the broken, twisted remnants of the plane, John scanned the area. The makeshift parking lot held about twenty cars; some, he assumed, belonging to the investigators who were climbing over the plane, supervising its removal. There were no camera crews, but over to the left he saw a tall man, his blond hair bright in the sunlight, talking into a small recorder, an ID badge hanging from his jacket.
And, clutching flowers, huddled and weeping, or silently staring, were the relatives of those who had died, small clumps of them, scattered around one of the prettiest spots John had ever seen, if he kept his head turned away from the crash site and pretended that part didn’t exist.
It was a beautiful day. He’d never seen such an intense blue sky, such green grass. Never seen so many birds, gaudy-winged and noisy, never thought to see a snake curling sinuously around a log, a seemingly endless length of green and brown as wide as his wrist.
His hand found Nick’s and squeezed it. His was shaking; Nick’s was cool and still.
But Nick’s eyes were wide, unblinking.
He tightened his hand on Nick’s again, hoping for some kind of reaction, and Nick shook his head a bit, blinked, looked at him. “There’s nothing yet,” Nick said, and when John’s face registered his surprise, explained, “They’re probably still in shock, the ones that are here. They might not even know what happened; I guess it depends on how quick it was.”
Nick didn’t flinch as his eyes traveled to the wreckage of the plane. He didn’t pay any attention to the grieving families; he wouldn’t, John thought. He didn’t consider himself one of them, as he hadn’t known his father, and he wasn’t there for them, not really. He was there for those who had died, the spirits of people whose lives had been cut short by this tragedy, who might have things they needed set right before they could move on to where they belonged.
Swallowing, Nick entwined his fingers with John’s, keeping hold of him. “Whatever you do, don’t go anywhere, okay? No matter what happens?” He sounded almost frightened underneath the facade of calm he was trying to maintain.
“I won’t.” John’s thumb rubbed in slow circles on the back of Nick’s hand. “Whatever you need, I’ll be there, love.” He followed Nick’s gaze. “Do you want to get closer?”
“Not really.” Nick gave him a strained smile; it was hard to tell what he was thinking, and not for the first time John wished he could read Nick’s mind, know what was going on behind those eyes. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”
There were police nearby, quite a few of them actually, but they seemed more interested in soothing the grieving families than they did with what Nick and John were doing. The two of them made their way closer slowly, skirting the area with caution. It was fortunate that the plane had gone down where it had, considering how the surrounding area was more crowded with neighborhoods, homes and businesses than John had ever seen in most of
The tall man with the ID badge on his jacket gave them a curious glance, and Nick dropped John’s hand almost instantly. It seemed an odd thing to do, as Nick had never been particularly concerned with people knowing about their relationship, but when John turned his head to look at Nick’s face he realized that Nick had stopped walking at the same time, rubbing his arms with his hands as if he were cold. “There’s someone here,” Nick said. “Well, of course there is, but…someone who knows. He’s looking for me.”
This was…well, not familiar, exactly, but John had done it before. He began talking, keeping Nick anchored in reality as much as possible, without distracting him. “Someone from the crash? Or an older ghost?”
“I don’t know.” Nick reached blindly for John’s arm and caught at the sleeve; he often wanted the physical contact. “I don’t know.”
They stood very still, but after a moment Nick shook his head.
“I don’t know. It’s gone. It might be too low on energy to talk.” Nick had mentioned something about that before, that sometimes the ghosts needed to gather their energy before they could interact with him.
“Do you want to wait?” John could feel sweat prickle his forehead; the damp heat was new to him and he felt suffocated by it. “Or maybe go and, well --” He couldn’t think of a good way to say it, but he remembered what had happened after his father had drowned. “You’ll have to claim the body. See when you can arrange the burial and all that.”
He hoped there wasn’t a lot of paperwork, but he was fairly sure there would be. God, that was the last thing Nick would need; endless forms to fill out, asking for information he probably didn’t know, except the basic details like --
“Nick? What’s your dad’s name?”
“Brian,” Nick said absently. “Brian Hennessey.” He glanced at John. “I’d know if he were here, wouldn’t I? I mean, I know I only met him the once after I was a baby, but still…it seems like I’d know. Like I’d be able to feel something different.”
“He’s family,” John agreed a little sourly. Brian. Well, Brian didn’t deserve a son like Nick and knowing his name wasn’t making John feel any more kindly toward him. “No matter what. You don’t get to pick and choose with family, and he’s close in some ways, if not others. Aye, I’d think you should be able to tell, so maybe he’s not here? Not yet?”