Slow Shift Nazarea Andrews (most difficult books to read .TXT) 📖

Tyler glances over him, his gaze that familiar intense searching Chase can’t ever forget, and for the first time in months he feels settled in his skin, seen and present and whole.

“Washington not agreeing with you?” Tyler asks mildly.

Chase snorts a laugh. He wipes his face, aware he’s crying. “Lucas looks like hell, dude. Are you even feeding him?” He moves then, because even his overprotective father can’t possibly view Lucas as a threat. He adjusts the light blanket on the older man’s lap and grins at him. “Hey, buddy. Missed you.”

Tyler clears his throat, and Chase glances up, grinning as he takes the offered orange. He begins peeling the orange and looks at his Dad.

He’s standing near the cruiser still, something unreadable on his face that makes Chase want to squirm and snarl protectively, hide the Reids from him, from the whole world.

He keeps that strange urge tucked away and picks the stringy white pieces off the orange slice before offering one to Lucas, an echo of what he did for his mother when she was too tired to move. Something in Dad’s expression softens, and Chase breathes a little easier, stealing a slice of orange and glancing at the house.

He wants to ask about it. Hell, he wants to demand so many things, but he doesn’t. He presses that down, with the urge to protect and the need to throw himself into Tyler’s arms, and says, “What are we doin’ out here, Dad?”

“I thought maybe you could show me.”

Chase glances at Tyler, confused, and Tyler smiles and nods.

“Your dad—he’s not wrong to want to protect you. You need that, Chase. But he’s willing to listen when you say this is important.”

Tell him why, goes unsaid, but it’s heard, echoing through the little clearing. Chase feeds Lucas another slice of orange and considers what to start with.

“I—I don’t know how to tell you,” he says, and Dad’s expression goes tight and hurt, so he hurries to add, “but maybe—if you watch? We can show you.”

~*~

He is forgotten.

For maybe thirty minutes, Chase is anxious, casting nervous glances at him before his gaze skitters away, but then, as Reid turns hotdogs on the grill and Chase moves around him with lettuce and diced fruit and buns—he’s forgotten.

Chase fits here.

He’s talkative, chattering a mile a minute as he trots around preparing lunch, telling Reid and Lucas about his summer, about his training and the books he’s read—he addresses those comments to Lucas and he sounds almost apologetic, his expression sad until Reid nudges him and says, “I finished reading the book you two were on. He’s been waiting for you to get back, so you can start Fellowship of the Ring.”

Chase grins at that, his expression wide and sunny. “I’ll read you a chapter after lunch, ok, buddy?”

Lucas doesn’t respond. Of course Lucas doesn’t respond, he’s fucking catatonic, but it doesn’t stop either Reid or Chase from talking to him, including him in their conversation like he can actually talk back.

It’s—strange. And sweet.

The whole thing is strange, if he’s being honest. Reid is quiet, but there’s a small smile on his lips as he listens to Chase, and he’s aware of Chase, in a way that is almost disturbing, except that it’s not.

It’s puzzling because he doesn’t understand it, the way Reid listens, the way he’s careful to burn Chase’s hot dogs just the way he likes them and leave the best slice of watermelon for him. He doesn’t understand the way Reid is quietly chiding when Chase tells him about how hard he’s been pushing himself during his months away.

He doesn’t understand the way Reid reaches out, almost absently, when Chase stumbles and trips, righting him wordlessly before he pulls back, never lingering, because if Chase has forgotten John leaning observantly against a tree in the shadows, Reid definitely hasn’t.

He doesn’t understand the stack of paint chips Reid passes Chase after lunch and the bark of laughter that punches out of him. “Kitchen?” Chase says, grinning at him. There’s a smear of ketchup on his chin.

Reid rolls his eyes and shoves a napkin at him. “Yeah, I finished the drywall and tile last week. Time to paint.”

Chase hums thoughtfully and leans into Lucas’s space—and that’s strange, the way he’s tactile with Lucas, constantly touching him, reaching for him, adjusting his shirt or ruffling his hair or tugging up his light blanket. Chase doesn’t touch Reid, but he can’t seem to stop touching Lucas.

“What do you think, Lucas?” he hums, flicking through the paint chips quickly, while Reid cleans up their lunch. He cants a look at John, offering lunch silently but John waves him off, not willing to break this quiet spell.

Chase is happy, happier than John can remember him being since before Nora died, and it’s here, with these two men who are damaged and wrong for him, and still—

“This one,” Chase says, tapping a pretty shade of yellow, and he smiles, a tiny bit sad. “I like this one.” Reid is quiet until Chase exhales and adds, “It reminds me of tulips? Mom’s favorite flower was yellow tulips.”

Reid’s gaze darts to him, almost defiant, before he drops a hand on Chase's shoulder, squeezes it briefly.

“I’ll get the paint tomorrow.”

Chase nods and cuddles into Lucas’s side.

“I’m gonna read to him for a while, then I’ll help you inside, ok?”

“Take your time, Chase,” Tyler says, and leaves the pair there, a book in Chase's hands and Lucas staring sightlessly as Chase starts to read.

John watches, and he doesn’t understand, not completely, because they feel like family, which doesn’t make sense.

How are they possibly family? How did Chase ingrain himself so deeply in their lives that even months later, he fits, seamlessly?

And how much was he hurting his son by ripping him away from them?

~*~

“You understand why this makes me nervous?”

Reid gives him a disbelieving look and laughs. “Yeah, Chief, I understand a lot better than you probably think. He’s fifteen and this terrifies you.”

John frowns, because there’s