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Scott knows he’s in trouble because of the way she’s breathing. Little aggravated inhales and huffy little exhales, all out her nose because she’s pursing her lips so tight. “Snorty,” he says, without opening his eyes.
She huffs again.
He blinks his eyes into focus, wincing slightly at the stark hospital lighting and the ugly ceiling tiles. “Who snitched me out?”
“Your mom,” Tessa replies snidely, but her eyes are wet when he turns his head to look at her.
“Foiled again,” he tries to joke, smiling weakly. “Where is the big traitor?”
“I, um,” Tessa wipes at her eyes. “I sent her home to get some sleep.”
She’s wrapped up in a twist of several blankets, on one of those bulky rolling armchairs that turns into a half bed. He holds out a hand. “How mad are you?”
She takes his hand, gripping so hard it hurts. “I’ve never been more furious,” she says, and hugs him so carefully it makes him want to cry.
++
“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to cut your big tour short,” he tries to explain over his jello cup.
She shoots him the most unimpressed look he’s gotten from her since he was sixteen years old.
“I’m an asshole,” he admits, and offers her a spoonful of wobbly red gelatin. “But a cute one, eh?”
She scoots her chair close enough to his bedside to lean her head on his shoulder. “You should have told me,” she rebukes. “I shouldn’t hear it from your mother, I should hear it from you.”
“I was going to,” Scott mumbles, feeling the familiar flare of guilt in his belly. “I was! Just… after.”
“It’s a tour to sign autographs and sell scarves,” Tessa points out, “not my showcasing of a Nobel Prize. They won’t even notice I cut it short.”
“Not true,” Scott says immediately. “C’mon, you know better than that. Don’t talk yourself down. You think I won’t call JF? You think I care it’s been fifteen years since our last session?”
She flicks his nose. “Eat your jello, kiddo.”
++
Scott goes through his last round of checks and tests, flirting with his doctor and making the nurses laugh. Tessa takes a picture with the x-ray tech and giggles at Scott’s outraged noises.
“He never asked me for a picture,” Scott mutters.
Tessa rolls the edge of his wheelchair into the branch of a potted plant by the automatic doors. “Oops.”
“Ha ha,” Scott gripes, chewing his the paper bracelet off his wrist. “First you rub it in that you’re more famous, now you’re plowing me into roadblocks.”
“You are so much fun right now,” Tessa informs him, kicking the brakes on and crossing into his field of vision, arms crossed. “Can’t you just be happy to be going home?”
Scott scratches at the knee of his sweats. “I’m always a little grumpy, after.”
Tessa’s breath catches. “I--oh. How many times--?”
“This is the fourth, the others were for breathing stuff. My mom freaks out, you know how she is.” He pokes her hip. “Don’t get gloomy on me now, that’s my job.”
“Four times,” Tessa repeats. “Four times?”
Scott realizes his slip. “Uh-oh.”
“Four times.”
Alma pulls the car up in front of them and Scott levers himself out of the transport chair. “Quick,” he says, crawling into the back seat. “Hit the gas, she’s about to blow.”
Tessa shoves his legs around to climb in next to him. “Shut up, I’m not talking to you.”
“You can’t not talk to me, this is my car!”
“It’s your mom’s car,” Tessa snipes back.
“Ah,” Alma says dryly, shifting into drive. “Just like old times.”
++
“You can’t possibly still not be talking to me.”
Tessa doesn’t look up from her phone. “Who said that?” She smiles when he laughs despite himself, and scootches over on the couch to make room for him. “Your mom went to pick up dinner. We didn’t want to wake you.”
“The meds wipe me out sometimes,” Scott admits, and leans his head back on the sofa. “Everything wipes me out, most of the time.”
“You should have told me. I’m still mad.”
Scott rolls a shoulder in a half-shrug. He can hear his mom’s car pulling into the driveway. “Here’s the thing about dying,” he says, pulling himself up by the armrest to take a piss before dinner. “Makes it hard for people to stay mad at me.”
Dinner is take out from the little diner down the street. Tessa sets the table. “Dad’ll be home on Tuesday,” Alma is saying. Then she hesitates. Tries to discreetly pick up the silverware next to Scott’s plate.
“I’ve got my own special ones,” Scott says, with a forced smile.
“Oh. Oh! I’m so sorry, I--”
“Not your fault.” Scott starts to stand. “I’m actually not even that hungry, so--”
“Sit down,” his mother orders. He sits. She puts the large handled fork and knife by his place and spoons out a helping of pot roast. “Drinks,” she mutters, and retreats to the kitchen. “Tess, cut that meat up for him, will you?”
“No,” Scott snaps, when Tessa reaches for his plate. “I can--don’t.”
“Scott--”
“No.” He stabs a slice of carrot and chews determinedly.
There’s an awkward pause. “Okay,” Tessa says finally, and starts to fix her own plate. “You moved back in?”
Scott mashes a potato chunk awkwardly with his fork. “Yeah. Nothing like being our age and living with your parents.” His hand jerks; trembles. He drops his fork and sighs. “I didn’t see a rental car out front. You need a lift back to the hotel?”
“I--” she tilts her head at him.
“Not that you can’t stay here,” he assures her, “I just assumed…”
“No, I got a room. I was just thinking: do you want to come with me? Get out of here for a while?”
Scott stares at her. “Don’t play with my heart, Tessa Virtue.”
“Clean plate club members only.”
He makes his eyes big and sad. “You’re gonna make me ask my mommy to fix my plate?”
“Nope.” Tessa leans over and cuts his meat into manageable chunks. “Just don’t snap my head off.”
“I get to pick the hotel tv,” Scott says, but he fidgets a little while she works. “Thanks,” he mutters, when she’s done. “I can still--I’m just tired today, that’s all.”
“Just eat your vegetables.” Tessa picks at her salad. “It’s not a big deal, Scott, okay?”
“Easy for you to say.”
Tessa’s fork scrapes against the plate. “Scott--”
“Forget it.” He shovels some food into his mouth.
He packs a bag while he hears his mother rattle off his schedule, his meds, other shit he doesn’t really need any reminders for. He’s not dead yet.
Tessa raps her knuckles on his open door. “Hey. Ready?”
He slings the bag over his shoulder and wobbles for just a second. Tessa jerks slightly, like she’d started to move towards him and stopped herself. “Ready,” he says, and follows her slowly to the car.
“I checked in before going to the hospital,” she says as he buckles his seatbelt. “Your mom said not to bother renting a car.”
“I can still drive,” he says, staring out the window at the streetlights going by. “Not that well, though. Makes mom nervous, so I stopped.”
Tessa nods, but doesn’t press. He drums his fingers on the car door.
“I looked into modifying, you know, crazy modern tech for cars. But the timeline…” he shrugs. “Not worth the cost.”
Her lips purse.
“Because of my somewhat imminent demise.”
“I got it,” she snaps, “Jesus, Scott.”
He shrugs, wincing at the back of the seat on his head. “It’s a grieving process, T. That’s what they keep telling me. You have some catching up to do.”
She exhales. “How about a milkshake? I can stop at a drive-thru.”
“Can’t. Need an hour with no food for--”
“Your meds, right. Sorry.”
He grins at her. “Ms. Research.”
“It was a long flight.”
He fidgets again. “Paris, right? I know you love Paris.”
She shrugs back. “I love you too.”
++
“I don’t want to burst your bubble,” he tells her, when she pulls into a dark parking lot. “But this is definitely not a hotel.”
Tessa puts the car in park. “Your mom said you haven’t been skating in a while.”
“Tessa, no.”
“Tessa,” she responds mockingly, “yes. I paid a lot of money for this, so let’s go.”
She opens the car door, ignoring his sputtering, and goes around to the trunk. He follows, much more slowly. “Don’t rush the concussed--oh for god’s sake.” He glares at the walker in the trunk. “She thinks my legs will go at any second.”
“She’s your mother, she’s supposed to fuss.” Tessa pulls a duffel bag from the trunk and slings it over her shoulder. “Hop to it, Moir, the ice is waiting.”
“There’s a reason,” Scott argues as they go into the rink and flip the lights on. “There is a reason did you ever think of that, why I don’t skate anymore?” He hates his slow shuffling steps, the way he touches the wall to steady himself as he walks.
“Is it the same reason you didn’t call when you were diagnosed?” Tessa drops her bag on the bench and gestures for him to sit.
He sits. “I knew you weren’t over that.”
“I’m gonna get a lot of mileage out of it,” Tessa agrees, kneeling to put his skates on.
“I threw these out,” he says quietly.
Tessa’s fingers pause on the laces, then return to their task. “Your dad fished them out of the dumpster. Cleaned them up.”
“Oh.”
She finishes in silence, then sits to do her own. “Your head okay?”
“I lost my balance,” he admits to her, quiet in the dark. “In the living room. Cracked my head against the table.”
She leans her shoulder against his; doesn’t push.
“It was footdrop,” he continues, because she’s not looking at him and because it’s the witching hour, the time for secrets and truths. “The first thing that happened. I kept going to take a step and I just… couldn’t stop my feet from flopping.” He tries for a smile. “All those tumbles were foreshadowing, it turns out.” He takes her knee strap out of the bag, testing the elasticity to give his hands something to do. “The doctors thought maybe a stroke in my sleep, at first.”
She stands and stretches out her hand. “Time to dance.”
He throws the strap down. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Tessa! I can’t dance. I can’t skate. I can barely walk across the room without having to take a trip to the emergency room. I can’t live by myself, I can’t--” his phone beeps.
“Meds,” Tessa says, and from somewhere she produces the small case, labeled with the times and the days of the week. “You need water.”
He swallows them dry with a wry flourish. “My new party trick.”
She wiggles her fingers at him.
“Tessa….”
“I’ll hold you up,” she says. “All those years were practice.”
They go slow, and stay near the boards. She hums for him, because he has to concentrate on not falling too hard to sing to her the way he used to. Stays in front of him to hold him up with both hands and it’s halting, it’s dragging, it’s achingly slow. He remembers how he used to feel on ice, how fast he used to be able to go, how effortless it was for him to glide. He’s breathing hard by the time they stop, and he has to slump heavily on her shoulders to make it back to the bench.
She brings him a water bottle and takes his skates off for him while he wipes the sweat away with a towel. “Okay?”
He smirks. “Any chance for a sponge bath?”
She smacks him in the face with the towel.
“It was good,” he says quietly, while she helps him back to the car. “Thank you.”
She buckles his seatbelt for him, and then presses a kiss to his temple that lingers. “Of course,” she says after a long few seconds, and her voice is thick. She clears her throat and smoothes his hair.
Felt good, he thinks, as she drives towards the hotel. Felt right. His last skate should be with Tess.
++
“You think you’re slick,” he tells her, limping into the room and collapsing onto the bed. “With that bathroom. You think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Oh no, you’ve discovered my sinister plot. It’s an AODA compliant bathroom so you can get in and out of the shower without another concussion.” She tosses him the remote. “No cop chases.”
“No HGTV,” he shoots back, and starts channel hopping. “So. How much research did you actually do?”
“A bit,” she hedges, and then rolls her eyes at his disbelieving face, flopping down beside him. “It was a long flight.”
“Half now,” he teases, “half on the way back, eh? That’s my Tess.”
She fidgets.
He moves to look at her properly. “Tess?”
“I cancelled my tour, I told you that.”
“Yeah, but… you’ve got other things. The anniversary thing, your fashion things, your--” he shrugs. “You’ve always got things.”
She avoids his gaze. “I cancelled them.”
His jaw flexes. “I don’t want you to put your life on pause just for me. So call whoever back, and--”
“Oh stop it,” she snaps. “Do you hear yourself? Just stop talking.”
“It’s refreshing,” he snaps back. “Everyone else wants me to talk, but you just want me to shut the hell up.”
“If you didn’t have a concussion,” she mutters, shoving herself to her feet. “Watch a cop show and eat the edible your mom left in your bag.”
“No fair,” he yells at her retreating back. “You can run and you know I can’t chase--” the bathroom door slams shut on his words.
She comes out, forty minutes later, in a cloud of floral steam. “You’re awake.”
“Almost the only thing I’ll be able to manage by the end of it,” he mutters, but he turns the tv on mute. “Sorry I’m a huge dick or whatever.”
She rolls her eyes. “And so eloquent.”
He pats the bed next to him. “Come onto the king-sized mattress, Miss Tess. You didn’t have to go through such trouble to get me into bed.”
She turns the lights off first, and the room is lit only by the flickering images on the television. “They only had walk in showers with the king beds.”
“You didn’t let me finish my apology.” He holds out a single gummy. “Ten milligrams of chill. Halfsies?”
She bites it in half from his fingers.
“Thirty years and still a rebel,” he jokes, and pops the other half into his own mouth. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want… I was ashamed.”
“Scott--”
He shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you don’t understand.” His other half, he knows she does.
She curls into his side. “I know. But you should have told me anyway.” She bites his shoulder chidingly. “Marie’s going to kill you.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking: you tell them.” She smacks his shoulder and he squawks. “You didn't let me finish. You tell them at the funeral. No way they’ll be mad.”
“Scott!”
“It’s a good plan,” he protests, “stop hitting the dying man!”
“You’re not dying,” she says furiously, “stop saying that, you’re not dying.”
He shakes his head, looping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer. “I am, though. Just slowly and terribly, not fast and romantic.”
She clings to him. “Stop it,” she asks, and her voice is teary and he’s never really been able to deny her anything anyway.
“Okay.”
They lie in silence for a long time, their breathing syncing automatically. “I’m not leaving,” Tessa says wetly. “Don’t ask me to.”
Scott swallows hard. “Okay,” he repeats. “But it’s not--it’s not going to be like a movie. It’ll be… mundane. Slow and terrible and expensive.”
“I don’t care.”
He kisses her hair. “You will, eventually, and that’s okay.” He pats his chest. “C’mere. Won’t be able to do this for long.”
She half-crawls onto him, wrapping herself around him. “Hi,” she mumbles. It’s been a while since they’ve done this, but it feels just the same, just as right.
“Brian won’t mind you’ve abruptly moved back to Ilderton? Not exactly the tech hub of the continent.”
“It’s William, and I know you know that.”
He smirks at the ceiling. “Willy.”
She rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I, uh. I broke up with him.”
“What? You didn’t tell me.”
“Oh? Do we really want to open up the box of ‘who didn’t tell who what’?”
“Definitely not,” he answers swiftly, “but feel free to cry into my for-now muscled shoulder.”
“It was an easy decision, in the end. No tears.”
He runs his palm up her spine. “When?”
She fidgets, hides her face in his chest. “When your mom called,” she mumbles. “It was… we weren’t ready for that. He doesn’t want to move to Canada, and I’m going to be here with you, don’t argue again.”
“You’re gonna need a new shoulder to cry on. And not that far in the future.”
Tessa shakes her head against his shoulder, kisses his jaw gently. “There’s no partner for me after you. Haven’t you listened to our interviews?”
Scott nips at her ear. “You’re gonna need a more affordable hotel room. Got at least one more year in me, you just watch. I’ll make you regret that promise not to leave.”
“Never,” she says, and they lie in silence for a long time. He should get used to it, he thinks. They both should. His voice will go before the end comes.
++
“Hey,” Scott whispers, morning just starting to break and and turn the whole world grey. “Tess?”
She stirs from where she’s snuggled into him, her head over his chest to hear his heartbeat. “Yeah?”
“Bury my medals with me, okay? All five, even the silvers. I don’t regret a thing about us.”
Her hand finds his in the dark. “All ten,” she promises, and they watch the sun rise through the windows.