Chapter 2
"Is that all?" Winston asked, once he'd written it all down.
"I dunno.
Like I said, it's been a long time." Sam took another bite of his toast, chewed, swallowed.
"Do you want me to read over your letter?
That'd probably be easier."
"
No
." Winston sounded positively revolted by the idea.
"All right, all right." He should have known better; Winston was an intensely private person, even though he behaved as though no one else had any right to it.
"Well, let me know if you have any more questions." He picked up his plate of crumbs, took it to the sink, and tried not to think about who this letter was for.
*
The bathroom door banged open--Sam had stopped locking it, because there simply wasn't any point--and Winston shouted, "Sam!"
Sam scrubbed his face with his hands.
Winston was a haze of blue shirt through the steam.
"What is it?"
"The online guides recommend a more sentimental salutation, such as 'My Dearest' or 'My Beloved,' but bearing in mind your advice, I'm really not certain how the recipient would take being addressed as my beloved."
Sam thought anyone who knew Winston, or even talked to him for more than two minutes, might find it a bit distressing.
"I'd be a bit creeped, myself.
I mean, do they know you at all?"
"You would?
Marvelous." And Winston slammed the door shut again.
*
Not certain how I am not worthy.
Of course I am worthy.
I am brilliant.
WS
Sam rolled his eyes.
Don't text me about personal stuff at work
, he typed and sent.
Then, upon reflection, he sent a second message:
Just say nice things about them.
Bloody hell.
Sam was the one who didn't deserve this.
*
Sam woke with a gasp, heart hammering, searching for a gun under his pillow that wasn't there.
"Stop it," came Winston's terse command, and Sam went limp.
Winston's presence was a weight at the edge of the bed, bent over Sam; Sam's bedroom door was open, letting in a shaft of dim light.
"Jesus," Sam said.
"I told you not to do that.
One of these days I'm going to--"
"How can I be certain that my letter will be received well?"
Sam propped himself up on his elbows and stared in Winston's general direction, letting his eyes adjust.
Winston was more wild-haired than usual, his shirt collar askew.
His jaw was very tense.
"How many nicotine patches have you had?"
"Answer the question," Winston snapped.
Sam sat up properly.
"Give me your arm." When it seemed like Winston was about to be recalcitrant, Sam injected a bit of bark into it:
"Your arm." Winston sulkily thrust out his arm.
Sure enough, the cuff was unbuttoned, and when Sam rolled it up he could see the patches bright against the skin: four.
He sighed and began to peel them off one by one.
"There's no magic formula." At Winston's scathing glare, he amended, "Or scientific formula, whatever.
All you can do is be sincere."
Winston was silent, and Sam tossed the nicotine patches in the general direction of the bin, not caring if he missed.
He glanced at his bedside table.
Christ, it was three-thirty in the morning.
"Has anyone ever written you a love letter?" Winston asked, suddenly.
Sam blinked.
"One or two." He smiled fondly at the memory.
Kids probably didn't do that sort of thing anymore.
Probably they texted one another or wrote in each other's Facebooks, or something.
"I don't know that you'd call them proper love letters.
More like love notes.
I like you, do you like me, that sort of thing." He rolled Winston's sleeve back down.
Winston peered searchingly at Sam's face.
"Did you like them?
The notes."
"Everyone likes getting love letters." Sam lay back down.
"Everyone likes knowing that they're loved.
It's flattering." He drew the covers back up.
"I'm going back to sleep now.
Don't wake me unless it's a matter of life or death."
He closed his eyes.
After a few minutes, he felt Winston get up off the bed, and then his bedroom door shut behind him.
*
When Sam came home from the surgery the next day, Winston was shut up in his room playing the violin, a heartwrenching melody that Sam had never heard before.
He stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment, leaning against the wall and simply listening.
Was this what it was like, then, Winston in love?
He closed his eyes and wondered who it was.
He thought he knew everyone in Winston's life, although it was true he didn't accompany Winston on
every
case.
Was this something he'd failed to notice, or had Winston been extraordinarily secretive?
There was that young sergeant at the Bureau, Gordon, who obviously had a crush on Winston, but Winston looked at him like he was something stuck to his expensive Jaelen shoe.
Was Winston even gay?
It was difficult to say; Winston didn't play by any rules.
Probably it was that Rebecca woman.
There had been something captivating about her; even Sam had felt it, her brilliant, razor-edged mind, not so dissimilar to Winston's.
Winston had her photo stashed in a drawer somewhere.
But she'd gone back to Vaelis, and Winston would never leave Brysia.
Would he?
If he did, would Sam go with him?
Could he?
Would Winston want him to?
The violin spiraled up and onward in a frenetic wail, and then went silent with an angry snarl.
Sam opened his eyes and remembered to finish climbing the stairs.
Well, whoever they were, they were a lucky bastard, and if they ever broke Winston's heart, Sam would throttle them with his bare hands.