Chapter Text
-z-
Beau knows a lot.
He knows how to hit a slap shot and he knows that a pinch of garlic salt and some pepper is the only seasoning chicken needs when it’s grilled over mesquite-flavored charcoal. He knows to call his mama every three days to let her know that he’s doing well and that he hasn’t killed himself (it’s not a fear she’s ever voiced – but she saw him when he first came home; things—things, hadn’t been pretty).
-x-
“Why in the hell are you not playing pro?” Sidney asks, breathing hard as he glares at Flower – as if it was Flower’s fault that Beau’s shot went in.
Beau’s breath hitches – just the way it always does when he thinks about What Could Have Been. “I went to war instead,” he says, forcing a smile as he taps on the patch on his charity game jersey – the caduceus signifying his rate (his job) as a corpsman in the Navy; then he holds up his forearm, adds, “Besides, I wouldn’t make a full NHL game with this thing.”
“I doubt it,” Sidney says; and the way he looks at Beau when he says it, the way he looks deep into Beau with his voice ringing with absolute sincerity, Beau almost believes him.
-
They go from fan-athlete acquaintances to texting-almost-every-night good friends. Sidney asks Beau about his favorite foods (Chicken, Beau texts back automatically, I’ll grill for you sometime and you’ll see what I mean) and what books he’s been reading (I just started ‘Moby Dick’ – so I’ll let you know how that goes).
Beau asks Sidney if Malkin knows more English than he lets on (Of course he does, Sidney texts, adding in the “:P” emoji) and if Sid’s as creeped out by Pierre as the rest of the hockey world (No comment).
-x-
Beau knows a lot.
He knows what a bullet feels like when it ricochets off bone and he knows that veterans have head-of-the-line privileges on the suicide hotline. He knows that if he wants to sleep – he should drink wine; he knows that whiskey and tequila do nothing but keep him awake while memories sneak up on him with the dark and quiet of nighttime. (The sound of bullets and the need to move, move – patrol, keep the perimeter safe and clear. Check your weapon, boy – condition one at all times, son – before you go in to see to the wounded.)
-x-
Do you want to come to a game? Sidney texts Beau one morning.
Beau stares at the text for five minutes. Beau had been waiting for Sidney’s interest in him to fade, to slowly fizzle out as the newness of Beau wears away. He hadn’t expected Sidney to want to see him again.
I can’t, Beau texts back.
I can’t do big crowds :/
Like I’d let you sit in the crowd, Sidney replies.
???
;)
-
Beau tries not to stare as he shakes Mario Lemieux’s hand.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Mario says, chuckling, his eyes glinting as if he knew a secret. “Sidney’s said a lot about you.”
“It’s a pleasure, sir,” Beau says, trying not to think about what exactly Sidney might have been saying about him.
“The honor is all mine, Beau,” Mario says, a flash of seriousness in his eyes, “You’ve done a lot for this country,” he waves his hand around him, “make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something to drink?”
Beau glances over to the minibar and says, “A Budweiser would be nice, sir.”
-
Beau is surprised how easy it is for him to joke with Mario, the laughs coming easily as Mario tells him stories from when Sidney lived with him – and he’s just waiting for the claustrophobia to settle in, for his muscles to begin twitching and the echo of distant gunfire – but it never comes. Mario’s voice soothing and distracting.
Then the Penguins are storming the ice, Sidney’s 87 easy to pick out, and Beau is transfixed.
Hockey is familiar, soothing. Even in his darkest moments of recovery, Beau could calm himself by closing his eyes and thinking about hockey, about the way he could balance the puck on the blade of his stick, about stealing the puck from the defensemen and putting it into the back of the net.
Now, watching as Sidney skates – his legs filled with indomitable power and unmatchable speed – Beau feels that same calm filling him.
It’s the moment Beau feels himself falling in love with Sidney.
-x-
Beau knows a lot.
He knows that the screaming he hears isn’t always real and that his hands aren’t always really covered in the blood of the men and women he couldn’t save. He knows that the searing pain in his arm is mostly memory and that his wounds are long healed. He knows that he’s fine, that he’s safe – that he’s not in the desert with the sun burning hot on the back of his neck and the sand sitting gritty in his teeth.
But even though he knows all of these things, he sometimes still finds himself sweating in the corner of his bedroom, pressing his back tightly against the wall just to feel something solid and real – closing his eyes and praying it’s not blown out from behind him.
-x-
“I bet you would have gone in the first round,” Sidney says, leaning against his stick.
Beau snorts as he puts his stick on his knees and takes deep breaths – he’s kept his body as much in shape as he’s able, but skating uses his muscles in ways a treadmill can’t quite do. CONSOL around them is empty but for a few of the beat reporters who had caught wind of Sidney sneaking out onto the ice.
“Well,” Sidney laughs, eyeing Beau in exaggerated judgement, “maybe.”
The words startle a laugh out of Beau even as he looks up to glare at Sid, saying, “I don’t think it’s fair to expect me to keep up with you.”
“I would never judge you unfairly,” Sidney says, sounding hurt.
“I know,” Beau says immediately, putting as much sureness in his voice as he can (it’s a tactic he’s used telling a patient that they were going to live, that he was going to get them out of this hell and back home), shouldering Sidney into the boards and batting the puck away out from between Sidney’s skates.
Sidney quickly darts out in front of Beau, skating backwards – then he’s putting on the brakes and taking the puck back, turning quickly and slapping it into the net.
Beau throws his head back and groans at the rafters. “Look, I already know you’re pretty great,” he says, “you don’t have to keep showing off.”
Sidney smirks, then he’s leaning in just the slightest as he says, “You think I’m great?”
Beau feels heat rising in his face and covers it by turning towards the net to retrieve the puck. Then he feels a hand on his arm and Sidney’s tugging him back.
“Hey,” he starts, nervous in a way Beau’s never heard him before, “do you want to have dinner?”
Beau freezes, and he knows that he’s staring – but he’s not quite sure he heard Sidney right.
“If I misread things, I’m sorry,” Sidney says, backtracking quickly and letting go of Beau’s arm.
“No, no-no-no” Beau says, waving his hands in a slow-down gesture, “I wasn’t sure—. Do you mean, like, dinner dinner? Or just dinner?”
Sidney huffs a laugh, says, “Dinner dinner.”
“Then, hell yes,” Beau says, grinning widely. Beau ignores the voice in his head screaming at him to not let Sidney get too close.
-
Josh Yohe (@JoshYohe_PGH) Sid stayed after practice to play a game of keep away with a mystery man. Details to come.
Seth Rorabaugh (@emptynetters) @JoshYohe_PGH They stare at each other a lot. Sid’s obviously taking it way easy on the guy.
Pens Inside Scoop (@PensInsideScoop) @JoshYohe_PGH @emptynetters We know who #SidneysMysteryMan is. *dancing man emoji*
Josh Yohe (@JoshYohe_PGH) @emptynetters @PensInsideScoop who?
Pens Inside Scoop (@PensInsideScoop) @JoshYohe_PGH @emptynetters Oh, we’re not telling :P
-
They’re arguing about me on twitter, Beau texts Sidney.
Why? Sidney answers.
They want to know who I am.
Shit, I’m sorry.
Want me to tell them to back off?
Nah, let’s see what happens.
-x-
Beau knows a lot.
He knows that his therapist is really trying to help him. He knows that his parents want him to move back out to California, they want him in the sun and in the ocean. But Beau also knows he doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he picked Pittsburgh because of the cold, because more often than not he can count on clouds and sky scrapers to hide the heat of sun from him.
He wonders what his friends back home would think about that – a California boy sometimes too afraid to go out into the sun.
-x-
Shoulda told him, shoulda told him, shoulda told him.
Beau keeps running. He pretends he doesn’t hear Sid shouting after him or the wail of sirens getting closer.
Shoulda told him, goddamnit, shit, fucking-fuck – I always gotta fuck shit up.
There’s blood on his knuckles and blood in his eye and his arm is on goddamned fire.
If that guy dies—Beau shuts the thought down immediately. Then he keeps running.
-
Rob Rossi (@RobRossi_Trib) We’re getting reports that Sidney Crosby was involved in an incident and is talking to Pittsburgh police.
Josh Yohe (@JoshYohe_PGH) Scary news involving Sid. That “friend” of his just beat the hell out of a group of guys - just for talking to Sid - before he ran away.
Josh Yohe (@JoshYohe_PGH) Make sure you follow @RobRossi_Trib for all the details as they’re made available.
Josh Yohe (@JoshYohe_PGH) They just found out who the guy is. Hey, @Sunshine19.
Rob Rossi (@RobRossi_Trib) Crosby is not getting arrested, but he will have to go in to provide a witness statement. Will this effect tomorrow night’s game?
Rob Rossi (@RobRossi_Trib) RT @JoshYohe_PGH They just found who the guy is. Hey, @Sunshine19.
-
Beau turns his phone off after the one hundredth hateful tweet and the twentieth new follower.
-
“I can’t comment on what happened that night since it’s an on-going investigation,” Sidney says to a reporter before he looks straight into the camera, adds, “but I’m not mad at him.”
Beau’s hand hovers over the power button of his remote as he reaches for his keys. He was leaving his apartment to turn himself in before the cops show up to get him.
Then Sidney looks over to his right, glaring hard, at the owner of a new microphone being shoved into his face. “What you did was unacceptable. Rest assured no Penguin will [bleep]-ing talk to you again as long as I’m captain – so get the [bleep] out of this room.”
“Sid—” the camera pans over, showing Josh Yohe, his face pale then panicked as Sidney surges to his feet, hands clenched into fists.
“Get out,” Sidney bellows.
Beau’s finger slams down on the power button before he drops the remote and he runs out of his apartment.
-
“Before we start,” the cop – Detective Brady – says, sitting down across from Beau in the interrogation room, “I wanted to thank you for turning yourself in.”
Beau nods mutely, running his thumb down the side of the cup of coffee the detective had brought him.
“Have you seen the interview Crosby gave this afternoon?”
“Yeah,” Beau says, nodding as he glances up.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose his cool like that,” Detective Brady says, shrugging, “well, at least at a reporter.”
Beau nods – he didn’t know what he was supposed to say.
“So what happened that night? You’re not a small guy, sure – but how did you manage to beat the shit out of five men?”
Beau takes a deep breath and folds his hands on the table (his knuckles are scabbed over but, for an instant, Beau thinks he sees his whole hands covered in dried blood) and leans forward.
“We were eating dinner,” Beau says, “and the guy recognized Sid and asked for an autograph and a picture.”
Beau tells Detective Brady how the guy left and came back with the rest of his buddies – asking for more autographs and more pictures, even putting a pile of napkins in front of Sid. Sidney tried to decline – he knew these guys were just going to turn around and sell the napkins – but the men were persistent.
“Then,” Beau hesitates, feeling a cold ache inside his chest – an echo of old fears – before he swallows it down and rubs at his forehead. “Then they started calling us faggots which didn’t really faze Sid; he just shrugged and said, ‘I’ve heard worse from better’ and that’s when management showed up. They kicked them all out. But—”
“They were waiting for you outside,” Detective Brady finishes when Beau stops again.
Beau nods, says, “I told them to back off because I’ve had combat training and experience. I told them that I have PTSD, so I may not be able to stop myself.”
“And where was Sidney?” the detective asks, his voice quiet.
“The bathroom,” Beau answers, watching as the man glances at his notes and nods.
“Keep going.”
“The big guy threw a punch and, the next thing I know, they’re all on the ground and,” Beau holds his hands up, showing his scabbed knuckles, “my hands are torn up. I looked up and I saw Sidney and—I don’t know. He looked horrified. I couldn’t take it – so I ran. I know I shouldn’t have, but I panicked.”
A quiet moment passes as Detective Brady watches Beau. “They were going to press charges,” he says, “but I think Crosby threatened them with a lengthy legal battle if they tried anything.”
“So what does that mean for me?” Beau asks.
“Considering the situation – you’re free to go,” Detective Brady says as he stands, “on the condition that you talk to Sidney – that boy was pretty broken up when you ran off. And if you break his heart, son, you’ll have all of Pittsburgh to answer to.”
“Break his—” Beau’s head snaps up. “I don’t—”
Detective Brady waves him off and leaves the room.
-
Beau comes home to find a trio of very angry French Canadians in his hallway. “Oh, shit,” he says.
“You got that right,” Pascal Dupuis says; his arms are crossed against his chest and he’s flanked by Marc-Andre Fleury and Kris Letang.
“How do you even know where I live?” Beau asks.
Kris snorts, says, “We have a lot of money.”
“If you’re here to beat me up,” Beau says, slowly making his way past them and towards his apartment door, “you probably shouldn’t.”
“We’re not leaving until you call Sid,” Marc says, “he thinks this is all his fault.”
“Of course he does,” Beau says sadly, rubbing at his face as he swings his door open (if he hadn’t been distracted, he would have remember that he locked the door).
The first thing Beau sees when he takes his hand away is the barrel end of a 9mm; behind that is a guy with an eye swelled shut – one of the men Beau had beaten up.
There’s a shot, but Beau’s already reacting – he throws his keys at the shooter’s face and yells for Pascal, Marc, and Kris to, “Get low and get gone!” Then Beau’s running forward – there are two more shots and Beau’s falling forward, but he’s already reached the shooter and they go down together.
It’s easy to twist the gun out of the guy’s hands, easier to turn it around and press it to the underside of the guy’s chin. Beau hears himself yelling, cursing, but he’s not sure what he’s saying – his mouth is moving and so is his finger.
It moves off the trigger.
“If you fucking move,” Beau snarls once the man beneath him has stopped moving, “I will absolutely fucking shoot you.”
Distantly, Beau knows that he’s been shot.
“Beau?” Kris’s voice is soft, barely above a whisper. “Beau – we’ll take it from here.”
Beau doesn’t move, says only, “I thought I told you guys to get-fucking-gone.”
“The cops are on their way,” Pascal cuts in, “and I may not be a doctor, but I’m pretty sure we need to put some pressure on your wounds.”
Wounds, Beau thinks. Plural. Of course it’s plural. He’s slowly able to loosen his grip on the gun and pass it to Kris; the shooter stays still under Beau even after Beau slides off of him.
Marc and Pascal gather around Beau – pressing towels to the wounds Beau doesn’t even look at.
“I should’ve stayed in Iraq,” Beau says, letting his body slump all the way to the floor. His breathing was labored, he was cold, and he was lightheaded – he didn’t need his medical training to know these weren’t the best signs. “At least there I only got shot the one time.”
“Keep him talking,” Kris says (Beau thinks it was Kris).
“Just once?” Pascal asks Beau, slapping at Beau’s face when Beau’s eyelids began to droop.
“It was nice, though,” Beau says drowsily. “The house where the triage was set up was hit by two RPGs – the eight-year-old who lived next door found me trying to crawl out of the rubble. He shot me to, as he put it, ‘put me out of my misery’. I thought that was very nice of him.”
Beau doesn’t notice the stunned silence around him, or how his words are beginning to slur into each other.
“Well,” Beau continues, blinking as he stares at his ceiling light – if he tries, the light looks like the sun had on that day, bright as it washed out the colors around them. “It woulda been sweet if he knew how to aim – he shot my arm. The bullet kinda bounced around inside.”
Marc (maybe Pascal) disappears from Beau’s eyesight – replaced with a woman in an EMT uniform.
“Thank fuck for the cavalry,” Beau mutters, letting his eyes slip definitively closed.
“Sir, no—”
-x-
Beau had always believed a bullet would be the way he would die. Either a bullet from an enemy’s rifle or a bullet from his own handgun. It was just one of those things he had known.
But it wouldn’t happen today.
-x-
Beau wakes up to his mother, asleep and holding his hand, and his father pacing at the foot of the bed.
Beau’s dad catches his eye and his face clouds over. “Jeez, Beau, every time we turn around – you’re near death. Why do you like doing this to us?”
Beau sighs, turning away from his father to sip at the water on his tray. His mom, feeling him move, jerks awake – instantly she cries, “Beau!” and begins crying. “Oh, my boy,” she says, clutching at his arm, “the doctor says that you’ll make a full recovery.”
“Yeah,” his father huffs, throwing himself down into an armchair, “just so he can get shot again.”
“That’s enough, Bill,” his mother, Francis, hisses. She turns back to Beau – she looks so much older than he remembers, as if this is the final storm she has the strength to weather – and forces a smile. “They arrested the man who shot you and those lovely hockey player friends of yours have been in here every day. The really cute one, Sidney, is a sweet boy. He’s ignored your father really well.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, mom,” Beau says, smiling fondly. “Where was I shot this time?”
“You were shot once in the shoulder, sweetie,” his mom says, smoothing the blankets down, “and again in the abdomen. Luckily, the bullets missed all your vitals.”
“That’s great,” Beau says, ignoring his father’s snort of derision.
-
“What I think is beautiful,” Kris-call-me-Tanger-dude says, “is how quickly Pittsburgh’s opinion of you has changed. First, you leave poor Sid to deal with police after your little mental breakdown—”
“That’s not—”
“—and everyone hates you. Then, when you get shot in your own apartment, you still somehow manage to save me, Duper, and Flower, and suddenly everyone loves you.”
“I’m pretty sure you guys saved my life – what with the bleeding out and all,” Beau says, but Tanger just talks over him.
“Have you seen how Twitter has blown up? No one can shut up about you.”
“Not even you, apparently,” Sidney cuts in, leaning in the doorway. His words had been directed at Tanger, but his eyes are on Beau. There are dark circles under Sidney’s eyes, a heavy slump to his shoulders.
“Hey,” Beau says, his voice soft, his chest constricting as he just takes Sidney in.
“I was going to be here sooner,” Sidney says, taking a cautious step into the room, as if he wasn’t quite sure he was welcome, “but, uh, the hospital’s doors are kinda blocked. By reporters.”
“What?” Beau’s eyebrows fly up.
“Congratulations, Beau,” Tanger grins, “you’re Pittsburgh’s new darling.”
“Tanger,” Sidney says, “can you give us a couple of minutes?”
Tanger rolls his eyes but stands up, he’s walking out of the door just as Beau’s parents are walking back in – fresh from the vending machine just down the hall – and he easily distracts them and gets them out of the room.
“If you don’t want to continue this,” Beau says, “I’d understand. You don’t exactly need my crazy.”
“You’re a little dangerous, yeah,” Sidney says, shrugging with one shoulder as he settles in the chair Tanger had just left, “but I still really like you, Beau. I think we’d be good for each other.”
Beau huffs a laugh – it was probably a bad idea, Beau knows it’s a bad idea.
But, looking at Sidney and the hope in his eyes, Beau ignores what he knows – and leans in to press a soft-sweet kiss to Sid’s lips.
-z-
End.