Chapter 8
Left alone once more, Peter took in a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. He simply had to learn to deal with being by himself. It wasn’t as though Jake could be here with him 24/7. He gripped his own arms with his fingers, hugging himself. It wasn’t cold in his apartment, but he still felt chilled.
He stared blindly at the far wall, trying to breathe evenly and normally. This time it worked better; he wasn’t wigging out completely. After a bit he even relaxed a little and dropped his hands into his lap. He sighed, relieved that he’d been able to control his fear this time. Maybe he wouldn’t always be able to do so, but even once was a victory for him.
Jake opened the door and came in carrying a load of neatly folded laundry. He saw how pale Peter was under his bruises, and how big his eyes were. “You doing all right, Pete?” he asked softly, as though talking to a small, scare animal.
“I am,” Peter replied softly.
Jake nodded, looking pleased. “I knew you were strong, Pete,” he remarked in approval. He carried the laundry over and laid it down next to him on the couch. Then he sat down beside Peter on his other side. “I’m really proud of you. You’ve got real guts, Pete.”
He blinked to contain the hot tears that threatened to fall at these encouraging words. “Do you really think so?” he asked dubiously.
Jake nodded. “When you still keep trying even when you’re afraid…that’s what makes a real hero, Pete. You’ll be fine. I know it.”
The absolute conviction in his voice did Peter in. He looked down at his lap as he sniffled a little. “I’m sorry,” he husked. “All I ever do is cry anymore…”
“Nothing wrong with crying,” Jake remarked soothingly, placing a hand on the back of his neck and rubbing gently at the tense muscles. “Just let them out. It’s not big deal if you need to cry. I won’t judge you.”
He was sure of that. Jake was so kind…he hiccupped a bit, then looked up into Jake’s eyes. “I’m so glad that you’re here, Jake,” he snuffed.
The biker smiled slightly and lifted his free hand to run a finger along his lashes, gathering his tears. “I’m glad that I was there when they attacked you,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, you probably wouldn’t be around anymore. And that would be a shame. You’re a real sweetheart, you know that? The world needs more people like you, Pete, and less people like the assholes who beat up on you.”
He was caught by Jake’s words and his touch. He knew he shouldn’t try to read anything into it, but he couldn’t help himself. “Jake,” he said hoarsely. “I…I shouldn’t…but I’m…really attracted to you. I’m sorry,” he half-whispered, feeling miserable at this admission but needing to make it. He tensed himself for Jake’s anger or disgust or rejection.
“Nothing to be sorry about, Pete,” Jake replied softly. “I’m flattered that you find me attractive. Lots of people are scared of me, just because of the way that I look and my lifestyle. It’s nice to meet somebody who isn’t scared of me.”
“I don’t think that I could ever be scared of you,” Peter sighed, happy that Jake wasn’t put off by his admission. “You’re too nice.”
A chuckle. “That’s one word that has almost never been used to describe me before this,” Jake replied dryly.
“But it’s true! You’ve been nothing but nice to me,” Peter protested.
“Well, how could I be anything but nice to you? It would be like kicking a beaten puppy,” Jake pointed out. He lightly petted Peter’s jaw with his fingertips in one of the few places where it wasn’t bruised. “I’ll be sure to be horrible to you once you’re all healed up.” he teased.
Peter found himself giggling, even though it hurt to laugh. “Sure you will,” he said still giggling.
Jake sighed. “Nobody takes me seriously,” he said, trying to be severe and failing miserably.
He tried not to be afraid, but he couldn’t help but feel fear going out in public. Even surrounded by policemen…or maybe because he was? They were intimidating in their uniforms with their weapons on display, and their hard, flat stares. Peter stayed close to Jake’s side as they ventured into the police station, trying to control his breathing and not start shaking uncontrollably. He desperately wished that he was back at his apartment right now, sitting on the couch watching TV with Jake. Not in this hostile, alien place, which seemed full of danger and menace to him.
Jake walked up to the uniformed policewoman at the front desk. He’d driven them here in Peter’s car, although he’d made a joke about them riding his bike over here instead. “Hi,” Jake said to her. “I’m Jacob Hartmann, and this is Peter Singer. An Officer Ridley asked us to come by this afternoon and work with a police sketch artist.”
She consulted her computer. “Okay,” she said. “The artist, Bill Farr, is waiting for you. Come with me,” she came around her desk and escorted them down a short hallway to a closed door. “You can work in here,” she said, opening the door for them.
“Thanks,” Jake said as he took Peter’s arm and led him into the room. A pleasant-faced man was sitting behind a metal table, with a sketch book open in front of him. He looked up with a smile when they entered the room.
“Hi,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m Bill Farr.”
“Jake Hartmann, and this is Peter Singer,” Jake said, taking his outstretched hand.
The sketch artist’s eyes came to rest on Peter’s battered and bruised face. “You were assaulted by some men at a mini-mart a few days ago,” he said. “The officers asked me to work with you to do some sketches of the men who attacked you. Is that right?”
He nodded a little, saying nothing. The sketch artist glanced at Jake. “You saw the suspects too, Mr. Hartmann?”
Jake nodded. “Yeah, way clearer than Pete here. In fact, I thought that you and I could work together and that Pete will only throw in if he remembers anything. Would that be okay?”
“It’s fine,” the sketch artist replied reassuringly. “It doesn’t matter who I get the description from, as long as it’s accurate. Let’s sit down, shall we?”
They all sat down in the metal chairs, and Bill Farr picked up a drawing pencil. “Take your time and really think about what they looked like,” he said to Jake. “Then describe them to me. If you can think of anything, Mr. Singer, please let me know,” he added to Peter, who was hunched miserably in his chair.
Jake began to speak, describing each of the men who’d attacked Peter one-by-one. He grew more and more tense as the session went on, because when Jake talked about what they looked like he could see their faces more clearly in his mind. He began to shiver helplessly as memories of that night swamped him. A sob escaped him involuntarily, and Jake instantly fell silent and turned to him. The biker reached out and grasped his hand, covering it with his own. “It’s all right, Pete,” he said gently. “They can’t ever hurt you again. I won’t let them. Okay?”
He nodded miserably, biting at his lower lip. “I-I’m sorry,” he husked.
Bill Farr shot him a compassionate look. “I completely understand, Mr. Singer,” he said gently. “Do you want to go outside while Mr. Hartmann and I finish up? I think that he remembers them accurately enough that we won’t need your help. There’s a bench outside you could sit on while you wait.”
He nodded, though he hated himself for doing so. Why did he have to be so weak and scared? Jake guides him to his feet. “Come on, Pete. I’ll be right back,” he told the sketch artist, who nodded.
Jake took him out into the hallway and got him settled on the bench. “Pete, listen to me,” he said quietly, bending over the stricken man. “I know you hate being scared like this, but the fear you feel isn’t just going to go away overnight. It’s a wonder that you even managed to come here, and it’s a testament to how much courage you have that you tried. And it’ll all be fine - they won’t get away because you can’t describe them, after all. I’ll make sure of that. I’ll be back out as soon as I can. Just rest and relax,” he paused, straightening up. “And Pete…I think that you need to go see a therapist and get some help. A good therapist can help you overcome your fear.”
He looked up into Jake’s handsome face. “All right,” he said. All he wanted was for the fear to go away, and if going to a therapist would help that happen at all, he was all for it.
Jake smiled slightly. “Good. We’ll figure that out later. For now, just hang out until I’m done.” he went back into the room, leaving Peter sitting on the bench feeling a little better. Somehow Jake always managed to do that for him - reassure him and make him feel not so bad and frightened. He sat back on the bench, trying not to see the police station around him, and waited patiently for Jake to emerge again from the room.
“That’s the last of them,” Jake said. “There’s another one, but since they already have him in custody I don’t think that you need a description of him.”
“No, I don’t,” the sketch artist agreed. “And you’ve been a big help, Mr. Hartmann. Your descriptions were very clear and detailed. You have a good memory.”
“Oh, believe me, Mr. .Farr, those guys’ faces will be burned on my memory for a long time to come,” Jake replied, his voice cold and hard.
The sketch artist glanced at him uneasily. Seeing his expression, the biker shrugged. “You saw what they did to him, and for no more reason than the fact that he’s gay,” he said. “If that happened to someone you knew or cared about, wouldn’t it make you really angry?”
“Yes, it would,” Bill Farr agreed, closing his sketch book. “Hopefully these will help to catch them,” he went on, lifting his sketch book slightly.
“I hope so,” Jake agreed. “Now if you don’t need anything else from us, I’m going to take poor Pete home and let him get some more rest.”
“Of course. I’m sure that the officers will contact you again if they need anything else,” the sketch artist shook his hand, and Jake left the room. He found Peter sitting on the bench where he’d left him, his eyes far away. But they lit up from within when he saw Jake emerge from the room, and he found himself smiling. The shy happiness in those blue eyes at the sight of him couldn’t help but affect him.
“Hey, Pete, we’re all done,” he said briskly. “You want to go home now?”
“Yes!” Peter said eagerly, jumping to his feet.
“Let’s hit it, then. We’ll swing through a drive-thru or something and get some food. So neither of us has to cook,” he added dryly.
“Okay,” Peter fell into step beside him again, clearly using his bigger body as a shield. He didn’t mind. They left the police station together, headed for Peter’s small car.
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Left alone once more, Peter took in a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. He simply had to learn to deal with being by himself. It wasn’t as though Jake could be here with him 24/7. He gripped his own arms with his fingers, hugging himself. It wasn’t cold in his apartment, but he still felt chilled.
He stared blindly at the far wall, trying to breathe evenly and normally. This time it worked better; he wasn’t wigging out completely. After a bit he even relaxed a little and dropped his hands into his lap. He sighed, relieved that he’d been able to control his fear this time. Maybe he wouldn’t always be able to do so, but even once was a victory for him.
Jake opened the door and came in carrying a load of neatly folded laundry. He saw how pale Peter was under his bruises, and how big his eyes were. “You doing all right, Pete?” he asked softly, as though talking to a small, scare animal.
“I am,” Peter replied softly.
Jake nodded, looking pleased. “I knew you were strong, Pete,” he remarked in approval. He carried the laundry over and laid it down next to him on the couch. Then he sat down beside Peter on his other side. “I’m really proud of you. You’ve got real guts, Pete.”
He blinked to contain the hot tears that threatened to fall at these encouraging words. “Do you really think so?” he asked dubiously.
Jake nodded. “When you still keep trying even when you’re afraid…that’s what makes a real hero, Pete. You’ll be fine. I know it.”
The absolute conviction in his voice did Peter in. He looked down at his lap as he sniffled a little. “I’m sorry,” he husked. “All I ever do is cry anymore…”
“Nothing wrong with crying,” Jake remarked soothingly, placing a hand on the back of his neck and rubbing gently at the tense muscles. “Just let them out. It’s not big deal if you need to cry. I won’t judge you.”
He was sure of that. Jake was so kind…he hiccupped a bit, then looked up into Jake’s eyes. “I’m so glad that you’re here, Jake,” he snuffed.
The biker smiled slightly and lifted his free hand to run a finger along his lashes, gathering his tears. “I’m glad that I was there when they attacked you,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, you probably wouldn’t be around anymore. And that would be a shame. You’re a real sweetheart, you know that? The world needs more people like you, Pete, and less people like the assholes who beat up on you.”
He was caught by Jake’s words and his touch. He knew he shouldn’t try to read anything into it, but he couldn’t help himself. “Jake,” he said hoarsely. “I…I shouldn’t…but I’m…really attracted to you. I’m sorry,” he half-whispered, feeling miserable at this admission but needing to make it. He tensed himself for Jake’s anger or disgust or rejection.
“Nothing to be sorry about, Pete,” Jake replied softly. “I’m flattered that you find me attractive. Lots of people are scared of me, just because of the way that I look and my lifestyle. It’s nice to meet somebody who isn’t scared of me.”
“I don’t think that I could ever be scared of you,” Peter sighed, happy that Jake wasn’t put off by his admission. “You’re too nice.”
A chuckle. “That’s one word that has almost never been used to describe me before this,” Jake replied dryly.
“But it’s true! You’ve been nothing but nice to me,” Peter protested.
“Well, how could I be anything but nice to you? It would be like kicking a beaten puppy,” Jake pointed out. He lightly petted Peter’s jaw with his fingertips in one of the few places where it wasn’t bruised. “I’ll be sure to be horrible to you once you’re all healed up.” he teased.
Peter found himself giggling, even though it hurt to laugh. “Sure you will,” he said still giggling.
Jake sighed. “Nobody takes me seriously,” he said, trying to be severe and failing miserably.
He tried not to be afraid, but he couldn’t help but feel fear going out in public. Even surrounded by policemen…or maybe because he was? They were intimidating in their uniforms with their weapons on display, and their hard, flat stares. Peter stayed close to Jake’s side as they ventured into the police station, trying to control his breathing and not start shaking uncontrollably. He desperately wished that he was back at his apartment right now, sitting on the couch watching TV with Jake. Not in this hostile, alien place, which seemed full of danger and menace to him.
Jake walked up to the uniformed policewoman at the front desk. He’d driven them here in Peter’s car, although he’d made a joke about them riding his bike over here instead. “Hi,” Jake said to her. “I’m Jacob Hartmann, and this is Peter Singer. An Officer Ridley asked us to come by this afternoon and work with a police sketch artist.”
She consulted her computer. “Okay,” she said. “The artist, Bill Farr, is waiting for you. Come with me,” she came around her desk and escorted them down a short hallway to a closed door. “You can work in here,” she said, opening the door for them.
“Thanks,” Jake said as he took Peter’s arm and led him into the room. A pleasant-faced man was sitting behind a metal table, with a sketch book open in front of him. He looked up with a smile when they entered the room.
“Hi,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m Bill Farr.”
“Jake Hartmann, and this is Peter Singer,” Jake said, taking his outstretched hand.
The sketch artist’s eyes came to rest on Peter’s battered and bruised face. “You were assaulted by some men at a mini-mart a few days ago,” he said. “The officers asked me to work with you to do some sketches of the men who attacked you. Is that right?”
He nodded a little, saying nothing. The sketch artist glanced at Jake. “You saw the suspects too, Mr. Hartmann?”
Jake nodded. “Yeah, way clearer than Pete here. In fact, I thought that you and I could work together and that Pete will only throw in if he remembers anything. Would that be okay?”
“It’s fine,” the sketch artist replied reassuringly. “It doesn’t matter who I get the description from, as long as it’s accurate. Let’s sit down, shall we?”
They all sat down in the metal chairs, and Bill Farr picked up a drawing pencil. “Take your time and really think about what they looked like,” he said to Jake. “Then describe them to me. If you can think of anything, Mr. Singer, please let me know,” he added to Peter, who was hunched miserably in his chair.
Jake began to speak, describing each of the men who’d attacked Peter one-by-one. He grew more and more tense as the session went on, because when Jake talked about what they looked like he could see their faces more clearly in his mind. He began to shiver helplessly as memories of that night swamped him. A sob escaped him involuntarily, and Jake instantly fell silent and turned to him. The biker reached out and grasped his hand, covering it with his own. “It’s all right, Pete,” he said gently. “They can’t ever hurt you again. I won’t let them. Okay?”
He nodded miserably, biting at his lower lip. “I-I’m sorry,” he husked.
Bill Farr shot him a compassionate look. “I completely understand, Mr. Singer,” he said gently. “Do you want to go outside while Mr. Hartmann and I finish up? I think that he remembers them accurately enough that we won’t need your help. There’s a bench outside you could sit on while you wait.”
He nodded, though he hated himself for doing so. Why did he have to be so weak and scared? Jake guides him to his feet. “Come on, Pete. I’ll be right back,” he told the sketch artist, who nodded.
Jake took him out into the hallway and got him settled on the bench. “Pete, listen to me,” he said quietly, bending over the stricken man. “I know you hate being scared like this, but the fear you feel isn’t just going to go away overnight. It’s a wonder that you even managed to come here, and it’s a testament to how much courage you have that you tried. And it’ll all be fine - they won’t get away because you can’t describe them, after all. I’ll make sure of that. I’ll be back out as soon as I can. Just rest and relax,” he paused, straightening up. “And Pete…I think that you need to go see a therapist and get some help. A good therapist can help you overcome your fear.”
He looked up into Jake’s handsome face. “All right,” he said. All he wanted was for the fear to go away, and if going to a therapist would help that happen at all, he was all for it.
Jake smiled slightly. “Good. We’ll figure that out later. For now, just hang out until I’m done.” he went back into the room, leaving Peter sitting on the bench feeling a little better. Somehow Jake always managed to do that for him - reassure him and make him feel not so bad and frightened. He sat back on the bench, trying not to see the police station around him, and waited patiently for Jake to emerge again from the room.
“That’s the last of them,” Jake said. “There’s another one, but since they already have him in custody I don’t think that you need a description of him.”
“No, I don’t,” the sketch artist agreed. “And you’ve been a big help, Mr. Hartmann. Your descriptions were very clear and detailed. You have a good memory.”
“Oh, believe me, Mr. .Farr, those guys’ faces will be burned on my memory for a long time to come,” Jake replied, his voice cold and hard.
The sketch artist glanced at him uneasily. Seeing his expression, the biker shrugged. “You saw what they did to him, and for no more reason than the fact that he’s gay,” he said. “If that happened to someone you knew or cared about, wouldn’t it make you really angry?”
“Yes, it would,” Bill Farr agreed, closing his sketch book. “Hopefully these will help to catch them,” he went on, lifting his sketch book slightly.
“I hope so,” Jake agreed. “Now if you don’t need anything else from us, I’m going to take poor Pete home and let him get some more rest.”
“Of course. I’m sure that the officers will contact you again if they need anything else,” the sketch artist shook his hand, and Jake left the room. He found Peter sitting on the bench where he’d left him, his eyes far away. But they lit up from within when he saw Jake emerge from the room, and he found himself smiling. The shy happiness in those blue eyes at the sight of him couldn’t help but affect him.
“Hey, Pete, we’re all done,” he said briskly. “You want to go home now?”
“Yes!” Peter said eagerly, jumping to his feet.
“Let’s hit it, then. We’ll swing through a drive-thru or something and get some food. So neither of us has to cook,” he added dryly.
“Okay,” Peter fell into step beside him again, clearly using his bigger body as a shield. He didn’t mind. They left the police station together, headed for Peter’s small car.
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