Urgent Care

by ion_bond

Summary:

David flicked on the lights in the empty exam room. “I’m not a doctor, actually. I’m a medical technician. If you came during our operating hours, I would not be in charge. I’m just literally the only person here right now.” Then, he realized he was being rude. “Um, you’re welcome.”

When Jack accidentally cuts off the tip of his finger, he meets someone to share his secrets.

Notes:

• For rizzjackkellys.

Hey, marvels_ninja! Thanks for the prompt. This was a pinch-hit, so it is maybe not as high-concept an AU as you were hoping for, but I had fun writing it! Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1

The white guy with the facial piercings added a clean paper towel to the two blood-soaked ones already wrapped tight around Jack’s finger. “There. That should hold you till you get to the ER."

“No need,” said Jack. “It ain’t that serious.”

"Um, OK. Sure,' the guy said doubtfully. His name was Darcy. He was one of Racer’s Columbia friends, privilege barely concealed under a layer of torn flannel and safety pins. A dozen of these MFA posers had jammed themselves into a hot Bushwick sublet tonight to drink bottom-shelf tequila and argue about whether slant rhyme was passé. But Racer had asked Jack and Sean over special, to meet his new boo. Sean had been really into the idea. So Jack popped a gummy to take the edge off and he and Sean rode the M train across the river. 

Jack’s left index finger tingled. It ached. It didn’t hurt, exactly.

He hadn't looked, but how bad could it really be? The situation was kind of funny. Jack had first started working as a barback as a teen, underage and under-the-table. He’d sliced a million limes in the last decade and he’d never, ever cut himself until tonight. But Racer’s girlfriend kept her knives as sharp as goddamn samurai swords.

“It’s really bleeding a lot,” Darcy observed. “You could hold your hand above your heart? Like, hold it up like this, see?" As he touched the bare skin of Jack’s forearm, his thoughts came through, loud and clear. Maybe the guy doesn’t have health insurance. Maybe that’s why he’s being so crazy about this. No, don’t assume. You’re being racist.  

Jack could tell things about the people who touched him. Things no one would be able to just guess. Thoughts. Feelings. He’d never been able to explain how. 

He shook his head briskly, like he could shake out all traces of Darcy. “I’m 95% sure it'll grow back.”

“Don’t be dumb, Jackie. You ain’t a lizard.” Sean was waiting in the hall; the tiny bathroom was too small for three people. “We’re fucking going to the ER. No more arguments.”

“OK, fine. I’ll have Racer take me over.”

“Yeah, right. Homeboy is blackout drunk and losing at poker right now. He don’t even know you hurt yourself yet. Come on.”

Jack found his Jordans in the pile of shoes by the door and started to put them on one-handed while Sean stepped into his own beat-up checkerboard Vans.  Spot approached to see them off. She was a thick Filipina sister with a sexy, raspy voice, definitely the coolest person in Racer’s cohort. Jack was scared to even think what her poetry might be like, but she was definitely out of his friend’s league. “Sorry to mess up your night,” he told her.

“It’s cool.” She shrugged. “I thrive on excitement.” She tucked something cold into the front pocket of his track pants. ”Here. You should probably take this with you.”

“What is it?”

“Your fingertip. I put it in a bag with some ice. To keep it fresh.” 

Sean made a face. “She’s joking, right?”

“I told you we never shouldda come to Brooklyn.”

 

::::

 

They compromised on Urgent Care. It wasn't a tough sell; Sean actively disliked hospitals. Plus, they wouldn’t even have to get back on the subway — google said the nearest Urgent Care center was over on Knickerbocker Ave, just a few blocks away. 

“Hurtin' much?” Sean asked him as they cut diagonally through Maria Hernandez Park.

“No. I just feel like a dumbass, walking around with my hand in the air.” In fact, his finger was throbbing now and he was definitely coming down from his high. He quashed a pang of fear. He was going to be all right. He always was.

“Sorry, man. I know you’re thinkin’ about the money. But you’re an artist – ” 

“no I ain't," Jack objected. “Racer is an artist. He’s gonna be a famous poet. And you! You’re going to be a dope-ass social worker and fix a broken system. I'm just a humble bartender.”

Sean pretended like he hadn’t heard. He squeezed the hand that wasn’t bleeding, and Jack felt the waves of love and annoyance coming off him: Why is he like this? He’s so talented. “You are an artist. And whether you’re typing in code  or molding with clay, these are your tools. You hear? You need all ten fingers to make those fucking little canyons and buttes. We don’t play around with that. I'll help with money if you need it.”

Jack laughed. “From the financial aid that didn’t come through yet? Or from the SSI check we need for rent? Sean, you are the only person I know who is always even more broke than me.” 

Sean punched Jack in the kidney, but not too hard. No one else could get away with saying stuff like that to him. They’d been best friends as long as he could remember. 

As they approached the address he’d found on his phone, they saw that the storefront was dark. “Maybe it’s closed,” Jack said hopefully. “Guess it’s Band-Aids and weed for me after all.”

They peered through the glass. The front desk was vacant and the waiting room chairs all stood empty. But Jack spotted a figure in scrubs moving around near the row of cabinets at the back of the room. He pounded on the door with the flat of his left palm, then winced as his injured finger protested.

Sean raised one of his crutches, but before he could do any property damage, the person inside – a tall, pale white guy with brown hair – rushed over and unlocked the door from the inside. 

He opened it a few inches, just enough to say, “I can’t let you in. It’s 8:17 now  — we closed at 8. The ER at Interfaith is open all night.”

“Fine,” Sean said stiffly. “We’ll go there, then. Thank you.”

The Urgent Care worker had a weirdly old-fashioned face: fine cheekbones, a tapering jaw, rosy lips. His face reminded Jack a little of an Egon Scheile etching. A face Jack would like to model in clay.  

But he looked extremely uncomfortable. He clearly wanted to close the door on them, yet couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. His hands twitched by his sides and he bounced slightly on the balls of his feet as he regarded them through the crack. He would never be able to sit still for a bust, or even a sketch, Jack thought.

Now he was stealing not-so-subtle glances at Sean’s legs, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. Jack hated when people stared at Sean. He waved his hand, all three layers of the paper towel now saturated with red. “It’s me. I cut myself. Can’t you just take a look at it? Like, real quick? Tell me how bad it is?” 

He thought about what Sean had said, how deeply he’d meant it. 

“I really need my hands. Please?”

Notes:

I'm on Tumblr! If you want to hear my headcannons about what Spot's poetry is like, hit me up @ill-say-anything-i-hafta

Chapter 2

“You can wait here,” David told the glowering white man with the crutches. “I’m going to take your friend to the back." He turned to the Black man. "Should be quick, since I can’t actually treat you. But I can give you my best advice, I guess.”

“Seriously, thank you so much." He was about David’s age, but shorter. with a wiry build, very dark skin, and hair in cornrows. He had a great smile, but David thought there was something a bit forced about it. “I owe you, doc.”

David flicked on the lights in the empty exam room. “I’m not a doctor, actually. I’m a medical technician. If you came during our operating hours, I would not be in charge. I’m just literally the only person here right now.” Then, he realized he was being rude.  “Um, you’re welcome.” 

“So, what do I call you? If you’re not a doctor.”

David tapped the ID clipped to his scrubs. “David is fine. Sit up on the table, please.” 

“Sure thing. I’m Jack. Nice to meet ya, Davy.”

“It’s actually David," he insisted, coming down hard on the final D.

“Oh, OK.” Jack boosted himself up onto the crackling paper. He was very good looking, and he knew it. He definitely wasn’t acting like a person in the middle of a medical emergency. But there was a lot of blood on that toilet paper or whatever he had wrapped around his finger. In fact, it was dripping down his arm right now. Jack seemed to notice that too, and his smile dimmed a bit. “Guess it started bleeding again. Or it never stopped.”

“What happened?”

“Tequila. Limes. Sharp knife. What do you want to see first? The stump? Or the finger?” He fished something in a sandwich baggie out of his pocket with his uninjured hand.

“I think you’re being a little dramatic,” David said. “I’m pretty sure most of the finger is still attached to you. Otherwise, you’d be in a lot more pain. But sure. Let’s see what you’ve got in there.”

People had brought in stuff like this before – tiny scraps of skin with maybe a sliver of fingernail attached, asking if Dr. Soo could sew them back on. It wasn’t necessary. Minor kitchen injuries like this didn’t need stitches to heal good as new, just a Teguderm dressing from the Walgreens down the block and a little time.

The bag was filled with water, half-melted ice cubes, and another, cleaner bundle of toilet paper or paper towel. David unwrapped it. A little brown nub sat in the middle. 

“What the fuck!” David exclaimed. "Oh my God!" He couldn’t help it. 

There was a good half inch of finger nestled in the tissue. It had been severed right up to the nail bed. 

Jack didn’t seem too happy, either. He looked like he was going to vomit.

“Oh, that’s bad.” David took a deep breath to try and calm himself “OK, OK, OK. We can deal with this.” He took the amputated fingertip in his purple latex-gloved hands, dropped it back in the bag, and placed the whole thing on a stainless steel instrument tray on the counter. “It’s good that you saved that. We might need it later. But there’s something I want to try first.”

“You said you ain't a doctor,” Jack said, in an oddly calm voice. “I think I need a surgeon. Like, for real. Don’t I?”

Hold on, hold on, hold on.” David was peeling off the sterile gloves he’d just put on. 

Jack didn’t seem to notice. He was talking to himself, low and scared, but still quiet. “I legit cut it off. Jesus. I didn’t know it was this bad. Fucking Sean ain’t going to like this. And Joe’s got me closing all week. If I have to have surgery …”

“Hold on, hold on, hold on. Can you just hold on?” Gingerly, David peeled back the bloody paper on Jack’s hand – and he really should have thought this through, it wasn’t safe at all with a stranger, did he have any open cuts on his own hands? Was he going to get hepatitis or HIV or something?

“I need a doctor,” Jack said, his eyes staring wildly. “Sean can get us an Uber. Fuck, I gotta go .”

David was looking at the wound, now. Sure, he’d seen worse. But not often. Urgent Care was mostly UTIs and strep throat. There was something wrong and shocking about the abrupt end of the last joint of the finger, pulsing red. The hint of white bone. 

“Oh, god,” Jack moaned.

“Shut up , will ya?” David heard his loud voice echo. He pinched Jack’s finger – warm, slippery – between his forefinger and thumb.  

David knew that he could do it. He knew he could do it because he'd done it before. He’d done it on the day he found his Bubbe Judith on the kitchen floor in Florida after a stroke, when he was twelve. She'd hit her head on the counter on the way down and her eyes were rolled back in her head, her permed hair matted with blood. She wasn't breathing. 

Until he touched her. Even the cut had sealed back up. He told his parents exactly what had happened, but no one believed him, because he was a kid. And how likely was it, healing someone? He’d even doubted his own story.

But he did it a second time the night his little brother Les lost his footing climbing over a chain-link fence to play basketball in a locked-up playground. David still remembered vividly how the leg looked at first, bent wrong, a sharp, broken spike of tibia poking through the calf. 

And he remembered a pink glow. How perfect he’d made it. 

He’d been 17. He knew better than to tell anyone, by then. 

And then one last time, last year, on an empty subway platform in Washington Heights. A teen with a stab wound, sobbing into his shirt, a girl he didn’t even know. It worked. It worked on people he didn’t know, too.

But David had never done his thing on the job before. He had tried, halfheartedly, and his efforts always failed.

Yet he knew he could do it. Potentially. Raw emotion seemed to help, his own panic.

He was aware of that now, certainly, as he touched Jack’s skin. 

And he felt something new, something he’d never felt before. He felt Jack’s presence, strange and familiar.

Everything shimmered and wiggled, like it did when he looked through the heat of a fire. The wound glowed pink. Jack’s injured finger seemed to stretch. Lengthen. 

Heal.

With the power inside him, David had grown back Jack’s fingertip. 

 

::::

 

Jack’s hands still had blood on them. Absently, he rubbed them on his white track pants. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Yeah.” David said, busying himself at the sink. He couldn’t bear to look at Jack right now, and anyway, he needed to wash his own hands. “Let’s not talk about it.” 

“But it’s incredible! It’s a miracle.”

David felt euphoric – euphoric and neurotic all at once, somehow. He had to be careful. He didn’t even know this guy. He had to think things through. “I’m going to wrap it up in gauze, OK? You leave it wrapped for two weeks. Three weeks. That seems more realistic. You don’t show anyone. And don’t tell anyone anything. Understand?

“Yeah,” Jack said, waving his undamaged finger in front of his face, admiring it. “Yeah, I hear you.” 

David tore open a packet of gauze with his teeth. “So, tell me. What do you do that you really need your hands for?”He made air quotes. 

“Would you believe I’m a brain surgeon?”

“If you’d gone to med school, you’d have professional friends who could patch you up. Or they’d at least know better than to take you to an Urgent Care center in the hood after-hours when you need specialized medical attention.”

“OK, first of all, this here ain’t ‘the hood.’ Didn't you notice all the boutiques and sushi restaurants? Bushwick has been gentrified since you were in grade school." Jack's voice was heated, but his body language was relaxed. He was only teasing; at least David thought he was. "And was that supposed to be a dig at Sean? He wanted to take me to the ER right away. He's always got my back.” 

David tore off a strip of medical tape. “OK, my mistake. I’m sorry for insulting the honor of your … friend? Roommate? Boyfriend?”

“Brother.” Jack said. 

The two of them were complete physical opposites, but whatever. “That's nice.” 

“He’s definitely not my boyfriend. I am bi, though, I’m very open to dudes.”

David’s heart gave a little squeeze. He realized Jack must have noticed his Pride bracelet. It was made out of stretchy rainbow-colored silicone and was shaped like a chain, which his sister Sarah thought was hilarious. “Were you looking at this? A majestic drag queen tossed it right to me off the House of Yes float in 2019. I never take it off. That was the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall riots! It’s a piece of history.” 

“I think you’re trying to tell me you’re a big-time ally,” Jack said, the grin back on his face. His eyes crinkled up. His teeth were blinding white. “Or…?”

“I’m a Kinsey 6,” David said. “Gold star. The whole deal.” 

He wasn’t usually this open with patients, even when they asked about the bracelet. Even when they were queer themselves. And cool and normal. And hot, out of his league hot. Oh, god, he needed to change the subject.

“But back to you,” he said. “I’m still curious about what you do with your hands.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, David felt his face get warm. But Jack gracefully ignored the accidental innuendo. “Master chef,” he said.

“That would explain the chopped-up finger. But I’m sorry, I don’t buy it. You’d be the clumsiest chef in the world.”

“Sculptor. World-famous sculptor.”

“Nope. I don’t believe that, either.”

“OK, fine.” Jack dropped his joking tone. It was like the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud. Had David done something wrong? “I’m a bartender. And that’s the truth. You can ask Sean to confirm.” 

“Can you get me free drinks?”

“Sure,” Jack said breezily. “I owe you big time.” he jumped down from the table and moved toward the exam room door. “Just come by the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. on Broadway and West 44th. Any time.” 

“”Oof, Times Square? Yeah, no. Hard pass,” David said. He felt a little disappointed at the sudden loss of physical proximity. But he guessed Jack had gotten what he came for. Got better than what he came for. “So. You're taking off now to enjoy the rest of your evening?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “hey, this is weird. But what are you going to do with the, um. The extra one?” He indicated the sandwich bag on the counter. “Can I have it?”

David had been planning to throw it in the biohazard trash. Get rid of the evidence. But he guessed that the original finger was Jack’s property. He handed it over. “Remember, though, you can’t tell anyone. Don’t even tell your friend – your brother, that is. Got it?”

"Don’t worry. I got lots of practice keepin’ secrets.”

Chapter 3

“The ball is totally in his court. Like, he knows where I work.”

Jack gestured around him at the bar area of the Forrest Gump-themed restaurant, full of well-dressed tourists killing time before their overpriced Broadway shows started. Racer Higgins, poet, rapper, and former juvenile delinquent, sported a threadbare Mac Miller tee shirt, a fresh hickey on his pale neck and an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear. He looked very out of place here. He’d come by at the start of Jack’s shift, concerned, wanting to know if Jack was in pain, if they had him on the good drugs. Jack brushed him off. He didn’t want to talk about his finger. He wanted to talk about David. 

“You also know where he works,” Racer pointed out. “Since that’s where you met.”

“Yo, if I showed up there again, I’d be a stalker. I practically invited him to come by here, and he didn’t. So he ain't interested.” 

Jack hadn’t been able to keep David out of his head. First of all, there was the straight-up miracle he had performed. The literal piece of magic. Jack rubbed his fingertip, smooth and painless through the phony bandage. He was grateful. And curious. 

But it was more than that. 

He thought about his own thing, the thing he’d never tried to articulate. The way he touched people and knew them, better than hunches or guesses. It was the deepest secret of his life, what he could do. He had thought maybe he could tell David, even though they were strangers. That David might understand.

He pictured that full bottom lip. The skeptical eyes. The long, white hands, the way they'd looked when David had peeled off the gloves to initiate contact.

There was something between them. Or Jack had thought there was.

“When you said you wanted him to come by,” Racer asked, “did you make it sound like you actually wanted him to come by? Cause, to be honest, you're kind of hostile about anyone visiting you at work. You definitely don't seem like you appreciate the company.

“Yeah, Racer – I only let you come around here because I want to stay on your good side to keep using your Columbia ID for the 3D printers.”

 “No, but for real. You act so fucking weird at Bubba Gump. Even to Sean.”

“I love you guys,” Jack said simply. “And I hate it here. It don’t feel like my real life. Half the people who work here are DICKS.” He intentionally said this extra-loud; Wiesel, shaking up juleps at the other end of the bar for some old sorority sisters, flipped him off. “And don’t get me started on the general manager here. D’you remember my friend Lucky? She was a server?” 

“Black girl? Curly hair, real cute?”

“Yeah, that’s her.  Joe fired her for quote, not being Jenny enough."

“Jenny as in the main character in the dumb movie this place is based on?”  Racer gave a low whistle. “That’s racist as hell! And it sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen, too.”

“He said he meant her attitude. Her attitude wasn’t Jenny enough. Fucking people over, then covering his ass,” Jack said. “I hate Joe. I hate tourists. I basically hate all of New York right now. I’m sick of these stinkin’ streets.”

“Wow! In the mood for romance!” 

“That’s me.”

“You know what you should do? You should go back to your Urgent Care boyfriend and say your finger’s hurtin’. Have him take a look. Yeah?” 

There was no way Jack could sell that, obviously. He didn’t respond.

Racer pushed his empty beer glass over for a refill. “Dude. I never seen you this way about any guy or girl. Ever. ”

Racer was right. This wasn’t like him. When Jack wanted to talk to someone – well, he just talked to them. When he was interested, he took his best shot. What was it about David that was different? Was it that the stakes seemed higher, somehow? “I don’t know,” he said aloud. “It’s just. I got the feeling he might be a snob. Like, once he found out I was a bartender, it seemed like he lost interest.”

Normally Racer, working-class proud, would just tell Jack to move on, fuck that guy. But this time, he seemed to stop and consider. “Did you tell him about your art?”

“A regular job ain’t enough? I have to be more to be worth his time? Is grad school turning you into an elitist too, Racer?”

“No, it ain’t that.” He fiddled with his unlit smoke, looking down. “It’s just. I don’t know. I think you gotta show him your whole self, man. I do that with Spot. If you want to have a chance with someone, there’s no way around it. So, did you tell him about Santa Fe?”

“Sort of? I tried. I couldn’t really make the conversation go there.”

Jack was scrupulous about not using his gift – whatever it was – to spy on people. Even with his oldest friends, he avoided touching bare skin when he could. It just didn’t seem right, knowing things without permission. But David had been the one who touched him.

David’s hands, warm and – despite everything – steady. 

Determination mixed with fear. Fierce intelligence. I can do this. I have to do this. For him.

“You, Jack Kelly, couldn’t talk about Santa Fe?” Racer laughed. “That’s a first.”

 

::::

 

When he heard Sean’s key in the lock, Jack was deeply absorbed, typing G-Code furiously into a wordpad doc. He didn’t even look up.

But when the apartment door opened, his roommate was not alone. Behind him stood Darcy and Spot and some other woman Jack half-recognized from the grad student party. Darcy clutched a bouquet of carnations wrapped in cellophane.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something,” Jack said.

Sean, red-faced and irritable from climbing three flights of stairs in front of an audience, shrugged. “They ambushed me in the lobby. I don’t know what they want.” He leaned his crutches against the wall so he could take off his backpack.

Spot stepped around Sean. “Hey, man. Sucks about your finger. We just came to see how you’re feeling. I heard they got it reattached?” She winced in sympathy.

“Um, no? Didn’t Racer tell you?”

“Oh my god. I knew it.” Darcy said. “He did lose the finger! Fuck! I wish I never asked you to slice up those limes, Jack.” He thrust the flowers forward, apparently on the brink of tears. “It should have been me.”

“No, no.” Jack wiggled his fingers, glad he still had the bandage on. “It’s fine. The doctor actually said it was minor. Turns out it was just some skin.”

“Medical technician,” Sean wiggled his eyebrows.

“Shut up.”

Jack pictured the planes of David’s face. The slight stoop to his shoulders. That silly, brave bracelet, and those fluttering hands. God, why couldn’t he stop thinking about the guy?

“It really did not look minor,” Darcy said. “When I was helping you.”

“Well, we’d all been partying, right? You were drunk.”

“Why you trying to bullshit us?” Spot asked. “Trying to look brave? I picked your whole-ass fingertip up off my kitchen floor, man. Like, it was almost all the way to the first knuckle. I looked at it real close, roo. Saw the bone. I wrote a fuckin’ poem about it.” 

“The imagery was very precise,” Darcy said. “Very graphic.”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but my finger is fine.” 

Spot crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Prove it. Let us look.” 

“Yeah, come on, Jackie,” Sean chimed in, the traitor.

Only the second woman who’d come in with them – a white girl with a blonde crew cut – seemed to have lost interest in the drama. She’d wandered over to the table in their tiny kitchenette. She was examining the preliminary model Jack had sculpted by hand, the Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks, rendered at 1:30 scale. Sedimentary rock was his favorite. He would use the 3D printer to reproduce all the layers more exactly – that was what he was coding, now. “This is so cool,” she said. 

“Thanks,” said Jack, grateful for any potential change in topic.

“Racer mentioned you were a sculptor. I’m Kate Plumber.” She said her name like she thought he should recognize it, or like she was afraid he would. “I’m in the graduate journalism program and I’m actually working on a piece about young artists of color. Mind if I ask a few questions? What kind of clay do you use?”

“It’s just DAS modeling clay. It’s a polymer, so it air-dries. I was working on it this morning, see, and it’s almost set.”

“This morning?” Kate gazed at him frankly. “Isn’t it a little hard to manipulate clay with an injured finger?” 

And right then, while he was distracted, trying to come up with a reply to this gotcha, Spot came at him from behind. Jack liked to think he had quick reflexes from growing up in foster care and group homes, but she moved with alarming speed. Before he knew what was happening, she had grabbed the gauze and tape, pulling it off.

There was his finger for all to see. Undamaged. 

Everyone in the room gave a collective gasp.“Holy fuck,” Spot said. “Now that’s a headline for ya.”

Notes:

The Bubba Gump Shrimp Co in Times Square is a real place, unfortunately.

I love this Spot so much. I would die for her.

Chapter 4

When David got off work at 8, the heat had broken and it was beginning to rain. Jack was waiting just on the other side of Knickerbocker Ave under a bright yellow umbrella. David looked both ways and jogged across. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Jack grinned. He had dimples, David noticed. No, not dimples. Like, little parentheses that highlighted the corners of his mouth when he smiled. He was wearing a red flannel, and the color looked good on him.  “Maybe I just wanted to say hi. I thought to myself, if he won’t come to me, I’ll come to him.”

“Oh,” said David, mollified. “I’m sorry. I just kind of assumed you wanted something. Because why else would a guy like you …”

“I like you,” Jack said. “But that ain’t what this is about. Can we walk?”

David’s brain was having a hard time making it past the first of Jack’s statements. “I have to pick up my chile relleno,” he said. “Um, my takeout order. Do you want to come? The place is right around the corner.” 

“Sure.” Jack extended the umbrella, so that it covered them both. “So. The finger. I still got it in my freezer. It ain’t easy to wrap my head around what happened, so I keep taking it out to check. Like, to check that it’s really real. What you did is … it’s really big. But, like, good. I mean, truly good. It’s unambiguous. Not selfish or scary. It’s just … good .” 

David did not fully understand this compliment, but it warmed him. “Thank you.”

“So, why you so intense about secrecy? What are you worried about?” 

David steered them around the corner onto Stanhope Street. “What am I worried about? I don’t know. I’m worried the government might kidnap me and hold me against my will and experiment on me?” 

“Hold up. For real?”

“Yeah. I mean, maybe.” There was no one else who could do what he did. Maybe it was silly, but the possibilities sometimes kept him up at night. “It could happen. Look at what they did to Magneto, when they found out he was a mutant. They put him in a camp.”

“I think they put him in a camp just ‘cause he was Jewish. They didn’t even know he was a mutant at that point.”

“I’m Jewish, too! I'm gay!” David was almost shouting, without meaning to. But this wasn’t a joke. “God, you of all people should know what I’m talking about.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re queer, too. You're a Black man in America! Of course you know what it’s like to have a target in your back – you know better than me. But I guess it’s not really the same, because you have tons of family and friends who share your experience. You aren’t all alone.” David felt tears come to his eyes and wiped them away, frustrated. “You’re not the only one . You don’t have to hide. That’s why I’m scared, OK?”

Somehow, they’d made it to Taqueria Santa Fe, David’s regular after-work spot, and they paused outside the door. The yellow umbrella was no longer covering Jack at all; water drops had beaded in his hair. He looked very sad. Or maybe it was something else. “You are really making some assumptions," he said.

“Sorry,” David said. God, he was fucking this up. What did he know about anything? "I have a big mouth." 

“Yeah, you do. But I hear you. I do. And I got two hard things to say. The first thing is. Well. A few of my friends found out about my finger. But,” he hurried on, all in a rush, “they ain’t gonna tell nobody else. I made them promise. I got assurances. Blackmail material. And nobody actually saw you or knows where you work. Except for Sean, I mean, but you can trust him, I swear you can ...” 

He saw David’s expression and trailed off. 

“I did you a favor,” David said. “I asked for one thing in return. And you put me in danger.” 

I like you, Jack had said. Why was his stupid brain thinking of that now?

“Healing you was not easy to do, by the way! Just in case you were wondering. Doing that kind of takes it out of me! I didn’t have to!”

“I wasn’t wondering. I already knew. Ask me how I knew. ‘Cause that’s the second thing.”

"What?" David didn’t get it. He felt his hands, balled in fists, relax.

Jack looked at him seriously. “I could understand you better than anybody else ever could.”

 

::::

 

David got his chile relleno and a lime Jarritos and made Jack pay. They sat at a table in the back. 

“It ain’t as intrusive as it sounds,” Jack explained again. “I get impressions, but just about what you’re thinking about right in the moment I touch you. It’s quick. Fleeting. It don’t hurt.”

“I understand.” 

“Just. I want to make sure I have consent.”

“Stop showing off how ethical you are. You’re just stalling. I’m ready.” 

Jack leaned forward and reached across the table. His hands were warm, strong, callused. And right away, David felt a force passing through him, a sense of pulling. It wasn’t unpleasant. 

He felt again that Jack was there , more familiar than strange this time.

“You know I’m not lying,” Jack said. “You know it’s the real deal. Because you felt me doing this same thing while you were fixing my finger. Sorry, by the way. That was an accident. I usually try not to let people touch me.”

“It’s OK. What else?” David asked. 

“Now that you know about me, you’re trying to remember what you was thinking the other night. You are racking your brain, trying to remember if you embarrassed yourself thinking about how handsome I am.”

David frowned. “True. What else?”

“Now you’re thinking about the X-Men again. That movie where it’s the ‘60s. Michael Fassbender as Magneto.”

“Yes,” David said. He pulled his hands away.There was no way someone could make up those specifics. “I believe you. And you already know I believe you. Now what?”

“Your food is getting cold.” 

So David ate his meal with a little plastic fork while Jack looked on. After a few minutes, he took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket, grabbed the grease-stained paper bag that once held David’s tortilla chips, and started to draw. 

From the way Jack looked up every few seconds, it was clear that David was the subject. “Hey, you’re an artist.”

“I got my high school diploma,” Jack said, shading with furious scribbles, “but I never went to college. I’m a bartender in the deepest pit in Hell. I can barely afford to live in the city, but I’m from here, so I can’t leave. I’m also an artist.”

“Oh,” said David. “Neat. Will you show me?”

“When it’s done." 

After a few more minutes Jack laid down his pen and slid the drawing across to David. There he was on the page, unmistakable. His features were exaggerated, the hands disproportionately large, but the boy on the bag looked just like him, nervous and still a little righteously angry and – David had to admit it – beautiful, too. Huh. He was wearing, for some reason, a cowboy hat. At the bottom of the paper, Jack had written DAVY IN SANTA FE (TAQUERIA). 

"I've never showed no one the other thing before, you know. Or told them. Not even Sean.”

"It sounds like this was a big deal, then. Thank you for trusting me. But you should tell him, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I probably will. But I wanted to tell you first.”

David had always thought that Magneto and Xavier must be gay lovers; the movies didn’t make any sense otherwise. But that wasn’t why the story meant so much to him. No. It was the look of relief on Xavier’s face when he pulled Magneto out of the freezing water. The recognition. 

He’d always yearned for a moment like that, himself 

“You must have been lonely.” David said. “And scared." 

Jack didn’t answer. He took back the drawing and folded the paper in quarters. Slipped it into his pocket.

"I’m thinking about what you said. About the thing I can do being so good . I appreciate it and all, but there seems to be an unspoken implication there."

"Huh?"

"I mean, maybe I'm off-base. I'm not the one who can read minds. But I want you to know, I'm not freaked out by what you can do. It's just a part of you. Just like mine. Not good or bad. It's just us. You know?"

 Jack stared down at the scratched, sticky surface of the table. Then he looked up again with narrow, sleepy eyes. "So. I told you I like you. And I know you like me. Does that mean this is a date?”

“Touch me again,” David said, amazed at his own daring, “and find out if I think it is.”

“OK.” Jack got out of the booth, walked around the table, and scooted in next to David. “Are you ready?”

David took a breath. “Um, yeah. I’m ready.” 

He leaned in, felt Jack’s plush lips on his, felt the pull. He concentrated on what he wanted to convey.

I see you. You see me. This is right.

 

FIN.

Notes:

And there really is a Taqueria Santa Fe on Stanhope Street in Brooklyn.

I wrote a silly epilogue to this. If you want me to post it, let me know in comments!

I am newly on Tumblr literally just to talk about Newsies, so send me your asks or whatever it is people do there. @ill-say-anything-i-hafta, y'all!