Page 85 of Under Cover
Crosby’s face crumpled a little, and Garcia, lying on his side, smoothed a gentle hand down his chest. Garcia had kept him apprised of Toby’s recovery, but it was slow. Toby’s fragile bones had needed surgery after surgery after being broken in jail, and he’d needed extensive dental work as well. He’d needed to sell the big apartment since he wasn’t working, but Toby had always been smart with money. A smaller apartment—and only a few good friends—had gotten him through the last two months, as had his parents coming to stay with him while he recovered. Garcia had visited as often as he could—sometimes sitting in Toby’s apartment on a new, more comfortable couch, and listening as Toby relived his and Crosby’s college years had been the only way he’d managed not to drive his department issue down to Brooklyn so he could throw Crosby in the back and force him to be home.
It had also let Garcia see the earnest young college student he’d had no doubt Crosby had been, the sweet kid who would befriend and protect a young man with a bright talent and personality but who could be easily bullied physically. Crosby had believed in good then—had wanted badly to be a part of it.
It had hit Garcia forcibly how much the betrayal of Sons of the Blood must have hurt him. The all-business agent, who had proclaimed himself “not that fast and not that bright” hadn’t just been trying to prove he was still good in his heart, he’d been protecting himself from any more betrayals.
“He doesn’t blame you,” Garcia told him softly. “He blames McEnany. He blames the dead cop who beat him. He doesn’t blame you.”
“He should,” Crosby whispered. “I… I should have seen how vulnerable he was.”
“Why?” Garcia asked harshly. “You had a day’s warning, and you got out.” He smiled a little. “I mean, I would have moved you out regardless, but still.”
To his immense relief, a gentle smile fought for purchase on Crosby’s battered face. “You were pretty insistent.”
“I’m still insistent,” Garcia told him, his heart aching. “We finish this case, you come home here, papi.We need your ass prints on my barstools, and I need to yell at you for stupid shit like dumping your beard trimmings in the sink.”
“What kind of animal does that?” Crosby joked weakly.
“Good. Then I yell at you for absolutely nothing, and we… we get up on our day off and go get bagels and shit. And this thing….” His voice caught. “This thing that happened to you. It never happens again becauseI’ve got your back, and I’m not stupid enough for any of this bullshit to hurt you.”
“Youarethe best partner I’ve ever had,” Crosby said, and for a moment Garcia preened, and then it hit him.
“You arenotcomparing me to McEnany!” he gasped in outrage, and Crosby’s laugh, a little cracked but still mostly whole, warmed him.
“Actually, I was comparing you to Gail—but don’t tell her.”
Garcia pressed his face against Crosby’s bare chest—avoiding his taped ribs—and laughed until he sobbed. Crosby let him, soothing him with a hand on his back, and when Garcia pulled himself together, he realized that Crosby’s hand had gone limp and he’d fallen back asleep.
Good. His boy needed his sleep if they were going to bring this thing home.
HARDING’S DOCTORfriend came by a couple hours later. Garcia answered the door in his sweats with a hoodie, beyond the niceties at this point. Harman Blodgett was perfectly average—average height, average build, with a widow’s peak of average hair not too far receded and average brown eyes. But he had a lovely smile, a little shy but gentle and strong as well.
He’d been almost angry as he’d attended Crosby the first time—snapping out orders to the medics and focusing a lot of his ire on Harding himself. Garcia had a clear memory of this unassuming man snarling, “Look at him! He’s been through hell and then, for all intents and purposes, poisoned. You couldn’t have pulled him out of the meat grinder a little earlier, Clint?”
“All of us are in danger,Bärchen—and if they get to me, they get to you,” Harding had replied. “He’s staying under by choice.”
Harman had cast Harding a flinty look before continuing to work on Crosby, for which Garcia had been grateful. And at the time he’d made the assumption—silly him—that they were friends or colleagues, but now, as Harman gave an apologetic look while wearing a much-laundered set of scrubs and asked if he could come check on Garcia’s “young man,” Garcia wondered if he hadn’t missed something big in his worry over Crosby.
If nothing else, he should have looked up the word Harding had used—Bärchen—to see what, exactly, it meant.
“He’s still asleep,” Garcia murmured. “Down the hall. You remember, Dr. Blodgett?”
“I do,” said his guest. “But please—call me Harm. Clint talks about all of you. I feel like I know you all.”
Garcia cast a quick glance over his shoulder, almost panicked. “Uhm, I wish I could say the same—”
He got a compassionate look in return. “He keeps his family and friends very close to the vest,” Harman told him. “But I remember him telling me that you and Crosby stayed with him all night over Christmas. It was such a kind thing to do.”
Garcia searched his memory for that moment, remembered Harding asleep on the couch while using his suit coat for cover. “We didn’t think he had anybody,” he said.
“I was on assignment,” Harman told him, and Garcia blinked.
“With…?”
“FBI,” Harman said, as though he hadn’t just blown Garcia’s mind. “Profiling division. I actually suggested Clint recruit Crosby. That work he did on Brandeis was some first-rate detecting, some excellent puzzle assembly. I’ve never seen someone so intuitive.” A shrug. “I know it probably felt like the end of Crosby’s world to get recruited to the SCTF and have to move to New York, but he was wasted as a patrol officer.”
Garcia gave a rusty chuckle. “Roger that. And he’s told me—more than once—that he really loves it here. I think he regards this as a second chance to do some good.”
“So not only a good puzzler,” Harman Blodgett said, “a good man. I know Clint’s beenveryworried about him.”