[Bob the hobo] A Celestial Wars Spin-Off Part 1262

PART TWELVE-HUNDRED-AND-SIXTY-TWO

[Previous Chapter] [The Beginning]

Thursday 26th May 2016

It took almost fifteen minutes to coax Mason into the shower, get him dried and dressed afterwards, and watch him face-plant into bed. Ben had followed them everywhere, but now that Mason was asleep, the Rottweiler curled up in his own pet bed in front of the gaming system.

Which was why, the moment another Rottweiler leapt onto the bed and settled within reach of Mason, Robbie just about undid all his hard work by almost screaming like the next victim in a horror movie.

“Easy,” Quent’s voice coaxed from the animal, throwing ice-water on Robbie’s escalating fear. “It’s just me.”

A few seconds ticked by before Robbie released his breath through pursed lips.  “What the puck?” he whispered harshly, knowing Quent would hear it anyway. Recognition of Quent’s voice didn’t slow his pulse in the slightest.

“We had a complication with Kearns this morning. He wants Mason to have round-the-clock access to his service animal, but Mason refused to leave Ben’s jacket on full-time.” The dog rolled his shoulders in a humanised shrug. “Apparently, Ben’s presence is the only thing that cuts through the BS when his PTSD hits. Anything human registers as the enemy.”

It was almost as weird to watch a Rottweiler shrug as it was to hear him speaking in English, yet somehow the divine aspect settled him. “A heads up next time would be freaking awesome, you absolute perk*.* Just saying.”

Quent looked at Mason. “Sorry about that. My focus was on him.”

The words had been dismissive, and his mother’s lecture on the matter rang in Robbie’s ears. Don’t apologise if you don’t mean it. But it would be wasted breath on the true gryps, and he, too, looked at Mason’s sleeping form. “I never got the chance to ask him how that went. Not great, I take it?”

 The Rottweiler huffed and shook his head. “Understatement. According to Kulon, Mason had a—oh, what’s it called … a dissa-something-or-other episode right in the middle of the session. Kearns was a button click away from calling in security and having him put under a non-voluntary seventy-two-hour psych-eval.”

Dissociative episode. Same as last night. “Spit,” Robbie almost swore, only to cover his mouth when Mason groaned and wriggled around on the bed. Mason had needed to be sedated, but Ben’s presence—or something that mimicked his form—was what his brain still trusted.

Good to know, since a shifter’s shape is wholly subjective.

Quent continued. “Yeah. Orders from Kearns. The lights stay on, and he’s not allowed to talk about it outside of sessions. Ben’s supposed to keep his jacket on permanently to pull him back when the episodes happen, but Mason argued that he couldn’t stay on duty all day and night. Thing is, it’s a contact salve, and the mindset of an alert Rottweiler is fifty steps backwards for us.”

“Except that’ll make even more work for you three, when Mason’s already flipping out about how many hours you’re all doing now.” Robbie was trying to slot in a shift for an hour or two to give them a break, but realistically, he wouldn’t have time without becoming a tentacle monster in the kitchen. He’d do it if he had to, but the concept was still too visually unnerving for his friends, so he tried to limit things to two arms…or maybe four or six briefly in a pinch.

“Like Boyd said, we can work something out tomorrow. This is temporary.”

“Man, I hope so. He doesn’t deserve this.”

The dog looked at Mason and chuffed. “No, he most certainly does not.”

They shared a quiet moment before Robbie straightened and said, “Let me know if either of you needs me for anything. I can cover for you if…”

“I’ll grab Rubin, if it comes to that. It’s not like he does much else in the evening.”

It hurt a little to be dismissed so easily, but his feelings were the least of anyone’s concerns. “Right. Well … just… if Mason needs me…” After Quent nodded at him, he realm-stepped to the kitchen, where only Rubin remained. “Where’d Boyd go?”

Rubin’s blatant you’re-an-idiot look said it all.

After Quent’s dismissal, Robbie really wasn’t in the mood for it. “Never mind. Keep an eye on things here for me, will you? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Without waiting for an answer—because unless the pryde recalled him, Rubin absolutely would stay put if he ever wanted to be fed again—Robbie left the living apartment and went next door, knocking once on the studio door before letting himself in.

Boyd was where he always was—behind his workbench with a nearly finished piece on the wheel in front of him, though using the tools in both hands at once was new.

Since the big guy had stopped and was looking at him, Robbie asked, “Believe me, I’m not criticising, but with those being divine tools, are you sure it’s safe to use one in each hand? I mean, you were the one who nearly had a heart attack when Sam was waving just one of them about the other day.”

Boyd’s focus dropped to his hands, almost as if he hadn’t noticed the knives. “Yeah, I know,” he said, sliding the one from his left hand back into the tool roll’s sleeve and placing the other on the workbench away from Robbie. “I’m thinking it’s divine bullshittery in play again, since they were made for me. Like, because they’re meant to be mine, they can’t hurt me. I’ve never gotten so much as a scratch from them.”

“Well, don’t be getting any ideas to test it now,” Robbie snapped, for the last thing any of them needed was another roommate in danger. “Doing things intentionally changes the rules again, remember?”

Boyd stared at him for a moment, then his gaze narrowed and he stood, rounding the workbench until he was within reach. “What’s wrong?” he asked, placing a hand on Robbie’s shoulder.

Robbie tried hard to keep it together, but Boyd’s piercing gaze carved straight through it. With a slight shudder, he said, “Mason flipped out again this morning during his session with Doctor Kearns. Kulon says he was this close to being locked in a seventy-two-hour psych-eval.” He held up his thumb and forefinger, just barely apart. His view of them blurred.

“Fuck,” Boyd swore, and drew him into a strong hug. He dropped his chin, tucking Robbie’s head against his throat. “Fuck,” he repeated, as if remembering exactly what that entailed from his own experience.

Robbie tried to pull away, but Boyd’s grip tightened. “Don’t,” the big guy said over his head. “As someone told me yesterday, it’s okay to need a hug.”

Robbie snorted at the reminder of their stairwell conversation outside Kearns’ office and curled his arms around Boyd’s waist. He’d be the first … well, second to admit that he needed this, even if it was just for a moment.

And then the tears came.

* * *

Boyd hated to hear Robbie cry. Well, he hadn’t minded it so much during happier times—like his engagement party or when Lucas passed his Detective’s exam. But in times of sorrow or stress like this, it gutted him. Still, he dug deep and held onto his friend, letting him take however long he needed to cry himself out.

Looking over Robbie’s head, Boyd stared hard at his studio’s front door, as if it had been responsible for putting his friend in this state. If only it were that easy, he mentally growled, for if smashing up a door would make Robbie feel better, he’d order ten in, just to be sure.

Instead, he drew on the many, many lessons from Dr Kearns about self-regulation, breathing in slowly through the nose and out through the mouth to subconsciously draw Robbie into the same calming rhythm.

“Erghh,” Robbie grumbled, finally lifting his head. His hands separated, snaking between them to touch Boyd’s upper chest and neck.

Boyd was just about to ask what he was doing when the chill of the tears vanished, leaving his shirt and the surface of his skin dry. “I guess we finally found a downside to you being shielded,” Robbie sniffled. “I can’t reach through your shirt to dry you. At least skin on skin still works.”

 “You know you didn’t have to do that,” Boyd said, loosening his hold now that Robbie seemed to be regrouping. “It’s just water. It’ll evaporate on its own.”

Still keeping one hand across Robbie’s shoulders, Boyd led them back into the reception-style sitting room closest to the front door and sat him down on the sofa that fit them both easily. “We’ll get through it,” he promised, giving Robbie a comforting squeeze before withdrawing his hand. “But what’s the best approach to achieve that?”

Robbie rolled his shoulders and looked at the floor in front of them. “Following Kearns’ recommendations, I guess. No one talks about the attack, and there always needs to be a light on, no matter where he is. The true gryps are taking care of the rest.”

“We can do that,” Boyd agreed with a bob of his head, willing to do anything to put a smile back on his friend’s face.

Robbie sat forward but didn’t speak right away. His hands rubbed together like he was cold or trying to work something out through friction alone.

Boyd’s eyes flicked toward the tools on the bench, then dropped to his own hands before glancing back at Robbie. It was like watching someone brace to step out into traffic. Boyd didn’t rush him.

When Robbie finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. “I really came in here to talk about Lar’ee.”

Anything but that.

* * *

((All comments welcome. Good or bad, I’d love to hear your thoughts 🥰🤗))

I made a family tree/diagram of the Mystallian family that can be found here

For more of my work, including WPs: r/Angel466 or an index of previous WPS here.

FULL INDEX OF BOB THE HOBO TO DATE CAN BE FOUND HERE!!