Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“It’s gone, it ain’t broken or healing,” he informed me. “It’s the ankle and the stitches in your shoulder at this point.”

“Seriously, I—”

“And you’re not going out with me, you know that.”

“What’re you talking about?”

He turned and sat down, which meant he had to look up at me even though he was above me on the stairs. “You can’t, not until the ankle heals. You’re stuck at your desk until the cast is off and until you complete the PT and you get the all clear from the doctor.”

“No, I—”

“It’s at least six weeks and then however long the physical therapy takes after the cast comes off.”

“You think I’m gonna be on desk duty for two months? I’ll die of boredom.”

“You won’t die of anything, actually,” he growled, getting up and shoving by me, charging back down into the living room.

“Oh, I get it,” I said, swiveling around so I could see him at the front door, grabbing Chickie’s leash and pulling on the navy knit jacket hanging there, what we both grabbed to wear to walk the dog, at least until it got cold enough outside to layer. “You want me to sit my ass behind a desk where I’ll be safe.”

“And what the fuck is wrong with that?”

“I’m a goddamn marshal, the same as you. The threat of getting hurt is part of the job.”

“I think you’ve had enough excitement for a while.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

“No,” he agreed icily. “But your ankle does, doesn’t it?”

I was stunned. “You’re happy I’m hurt.”

“I am not, and that’s a shitty thing to say.”

“You’re happy I’m off the street,” I accused.

“And if I am?”

“What the fuck, Ian? I’m your partner. Before anything else, I’m the guy who—”

“No!” he roared. “Before anything else you’re my life, you stupid prick!”

Thoroughly gobsmacked, I just stood there as he stormed out of the house with Chickie in tow, slamming the door so hard I was surprised it didn’t splinter.

I sat down on the stairs and tried to put things together.

Us being more than partners was new, but for whatever reason, I was still putting the bulk of my importance to him on the work partnership. And I knew a lot of it was because it was there that I had proven my worth to Ian Doyle to begin with. I was always the first guy through the door after him, and he knew he could count on me. But apparently, whether or not I followed him out into the field, I was still the guy he wanted to come home to.

Getting up, I grabbed the crutch I had left leaning against the stairs, balanced myself as I held on to the railing, and with a sort of rocking motion, up on the right, lift, and lean back to the left, I made it up the stairs.

Earlier in the day, Ian had run garbage bags up to the bathroom and put them under the sink so I’d have them when I took a shower. They would protect the cast that covered all but my toes on my left foot and extended up to under my knee. I secured a bag before I got in the shower. I had to figure out what I was going to wear to work on Monday, since with my boss, sweats and lounge pants weren’t going to cut it.

I was drying my hair, towel wrapped around my waist, when I heard the front door open and close. After limping to the edge of the loft and looking down, I watched as Ian hung up Chickie’s leash, took off the jacket, and went to the kitchen to wash his hands. The point of taking the dog out was so he could take a crap, so even through two layers of bag, it felt gross. Once he was done, I was surprised he didn’t come up.

“What’re you doing?”

He walked out into the middle of the room so he could look up at me. “You had to prove to me that you didn’t need any help?”

He was pissed I’d climbed the stairs alone. “No, I figured out a way to do it that took little effort, and since I’ll have to do it when you’re not around, it was good to practice.”

“Fine,” he said dejectedly and walked back into the kitchen.

“Is that it?” I called out.

“I don’t wanna fight,” came the reply.

“I don’t either.”

“Then leave it alone.”

“Can’t do that, either.”

He reappeared in the living room, staring up. “What do you want from me?”

“So here’s what I thought,” I said softly, done drying my hair and leaning forward on the railing. “If something happened and I couldn’t be your partner anymore, you wouldn’t want me.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“Not want you?”

I ignored his tone, how angry he sounded, and the glare. “Part of that is that us being partners, me showing you that I could do the job plus keep up with you—that was how you first started trusting me.”