Silent Knight: A Fog City Novel Read online

  There was a pause before the words continued, rapidly appearing onscreen, Holt’s keystrokes no less maniacal now that he was home.

  Oski15: I miss them, but it’s not the same. Guess that part worked.

  Another long pause during which Brax’s worry ratcheted higher.

  Oski15: I’m in the attic now, which used to be our bonus room. They offered to move my furniture up here, but all I need is a cot. It was simpler in the desert. Things are… not… here.

  Holt adored his siblings, that much was clear whenever he spoke of them, but Brax had a hard time getting a read on Holt’s relationship with the rest of his family. Holt missed his parents, though he never talked much about the time before their deaths, and he revered his grandparents, but there was a tension there too. Expectations, maybe? Would make sense in such a successful family. While the military was hard in its own way, in some ways, it had been easier for Holt. That’s how it worked out for a lot of soldiers. Going back to civilian life was not easy from the stories Brax had heard. He hadn’t been lying when he’d implied he was worried about his own reintegration one day. But that was for another time. Today, Holt needed his help.

  Brooklyn11219: Reintegration is hard. It was hard integrating here too.

  Oski15: But I had you.

  Brax’s chest ached and his hands shook, making it hard to type.

  Brooklyn11219: You still do. But you also need to find people you can talk to there. Who know what you’re going through. Go to the VA. Find a support group. Did they give you a list before you left base?

  Oski15: I know, and yes, they did. Jeremy reached out already. You have something to do with that?

  Brooklyn11219: Met Jeremy in OCS. He’s a good guy and there in SF. Thought he could help.

  Brax had woken up from his own nightmare his first night back at camp. Holt’s brown eyes had stared at him through a bank of fog, filled with the same despondent fear and sadness Brax had seen in them the night he’d found Holt hiding under his bed. The same night Brax had learned something about the private that had set Holt on a course to succeed, in the army and in dealing with his fears. Holt needed to focus on something besides the fear and the before and after differences he couldn’t help but notice. A touchstone that had always been there—before, during, and after his service.

  Brooklyn11219: You also went home with certain skills on hyperdrive.

  Oski15: Are you encouraging illegal behavior, Cap? Of the hacking sort?

  Brax chuckled.

  Brooklyn11219: Me? Never.

  Oski15: This room would make a good lair.

  Brax imagined Holt in an office chair, spinning round and round, devising a monstrous computer setup—multiple screens, a line of keyboards, stacks of CPUs—like he’d had at his fingertips in Camp Casey’s command center. Yes, that’s what Holt needed, a project that put the skills that had rescued him, motivated him time and again, to good use.

  Brooklyn11219: Find your focus, Holt, and you’ll find yourself. Just like you did here.

  After they finished chatting, Brax emailed Jeremy, thanked him for reaching out to Holt, and asked him to reach out again soon.

  A Couple Weeks Later

  Brooklyn11219: Do I have you to thank for tonight’s Hanukkah meal?

  Oski15: Least I could do. I have you to thank for this.

  A picture downloaded. Holt stood in front of a wall of digital mayhem, exactly how Brax had pictured it. Sadness lingered in Holt’s eyes, but not as bad as the night Brax had found him under the bed, and not as bad as Holt’s words had led Brax to imagine a couple weeks ago. But the dark circles under his eyes worried Brax more than a little. Were they from long nights building computers, or were the nightmares getting worse?

  A Few Months Later

  Oski15: I’ve started going to the support group more regularly. It’s good to know it’s not just me with nightmares. But the nightmares…

  Worry realized, Brax ignored his twisting insides and hurried to type back a message.

  Brooklyn11219: You’re not alone. You’ve got Jeremy, the group, and your family there. Me here.

  Too fucking far away when Holt needed him most.

  Holt’s response surprised him.

  Oski15: Are you alone? Do you have anyone there? Do you have nightmares?

  Of Holt not opening his eyes that day in the rubble.

  Of Holt on the dance floor with someone else.

  Of a blinking cursor, no message incoming.

  Of big brown eyes in the fog, full of sadness, too far away for Brax to fix.

  Brooklyn11219: We all have nightmares. It’s normal. And yes, I have friends here to talk to.

  Thanks to Holt.

  Brooklyn11219: Marsh keeps talking computer at me like he thinks I’m you, and Luther and Teague feed me well. Helps me sleep better.

  Worse, in fact, though Marsh’s company on nights when the nightmares were too vivid, the worries too close to the surface—usually Mondays, the fear of the blinking cursor the next day riding Brax hard—was a comfort. But Marsh wasn’t his best friend; neither were Luther or Teague.

  Brooklyn11219: You can message me anytime. It doesn’t only have to be on Tuesdays.

  Oski15: Okay, will do. Same to you.

  He thought Holt was done but then another question came through.

  Oski15: Have you thought any more about what you’re going to do next year?

  Brax coasted his fingers over the framed picture on his desk, thinking more about the photo behind the one displayed. Fuck, at this point, he was more afraid of leaving the desert than he was of dying there.

  Brooklyn11219: I’m not sure yet. What do you think I should do?

  Oski15: Counselor. You help people, Cap. All of us there, me now.

  It was an idea. He had options. He was a twenty-year army vet with experience as military police and in orientation and training. Police department placements, feds, defense contractors, VA positions were all on the table. But that wasn’t what the fear of leaving was really about for him.

  Brooklyn11219: Maybe. Or cop or parole officer. I’ve got options. Not sure where though. Twenty years here, and no family left in New York.

  There was a long pause, then an answer that twisted Brax’s insides more.

  Oski15: You have family. And you made me a promise.

  Eight Months Later

  They’d been chatting for almost an hour. It had been a four day stretch since they’d last caught up, long for them now. Brax had been off base in a nearby village for a training exercise with local law enforcement. Holt was filling him in on some of the IT improvements he’d made at Madigan Cold Storage, his family’s business, while Brax updated him on Marsh’s recent promotion, the marathon chess game they had going, and Luther and Teague’s extravagant Thanksgiving dinner.

  He was due in a meeting in thirty, but he wanted to tell Holt his news. Except he was nervous as hell. Nervous whether Holt would be happy about it or if he’d be disappointed or, worse yet, angry.

  He was breaking a promise of sorts. Not that he hadn’t tried to keep it. Holt deserved to hear that from him. There was also a part of Brax that was excited and wanted desperately to share the news.

  Brooklyn11219: I made a decision. Put in my retirement papers.

  Oski15: *clapping* So when are you coming to San Francisco?

  Brooklyn11219: I applied for a job there.

  Oski15: *no longer clapping* Why didn’t you tell me?

  Brooklyn11219: Didn’t want to get your hopes up, which was the right call because I didn’t get it.

  Oski15: Fuck. Where you gonna be?

  Brooklyn11219: Boston Police Department.

  There was a long delay during which Brax feared he’d lost his best friend. His stomach sank, his chest ached, and sweat broke out across his brow. He nervously brushed his fingers over the keyboard, working up an apology.

  But then a picture appeared. Holt in one of his ratty Raptors tees and a clashing flannel, holding a bottl
e of Dom Perignon in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. A toast, to him.

  Relief washed over Brax, the wave so powerful he had to lay his head in his arms on his desk, catching his breath and waiting for his racing pulse to slow.

  The computer dinged with another message. Brax peeked at the screen.

  Oski15: Fancy for the fancy.

  And laughed out loud. He straightened and put his fingers back on the keyboard.

  Brooklyn11219: Ayers pulled some strings.

  Oski15: Congrats, Brax. You deserve it.

  The “Brax” drowned him in an even stronger wave. Of memories from their night together over a year ago. Holt laid out on the bed, legs spread, his back arched and his cock hard in Brax’s mouth, chanting “Brax” among a string of lust-drenched curses.

  Brax’s dick ached worse than his chest.

  Oski15: Keep me posted on the retirement ceremony. I want to be there.

  Brooklyn11219: I’ll send you the details as soon as I have them.

  After they signed off, Brax took an unscheduled shower. Cock in hand, he brought himself off to the memories of Holt’s smell, his taste, and his tight grip around Brax’s cock. He muffled his groan in the crook of his arm and tried to wash away his love for a man who was still out of reach.

  Two Months Later

  Oski15: I learned something about myself today.

  Brooklyn11219: What’s that?

  Oski15: I think I’m demisexual.

  Brax had heard the term before but only recently. In preparing for his move to Boston, he’d been researching the local LGBTQ community. Where to live, where to hang out, where he might volunteer his time. Working in law enforcement wasn’t the most queer-friendly career, but it would be more queer friendly than the military. Enough that he felt comfortable in planning not to hide, to enjoy himself, and to volunteer for causes that were personally meaningful to him.

  He opened his internet browser and typed in demisexual, but before the results returned, another message from Holt popped up.

  Oski15: Let me back up… Amelia, she works for the family, she’s a nurse and a family friend. Actually, I think my grandfather likes her better than his own grandkids.

  A nurse that worked for their family? In cold storage? But that wasn’t the curiosity that most caught Brax’s attention. There was a fondness in Holt’s message, even in digital, that made Brax sit up straighter.

  Oski15: She volunteers at a shelter for LGBTQ teens. She does checkups and stuff for them. Hawes and Helena volunteer there too. I went with them today. They needed some IT help. Amelia introduced me to one of the counselors who is demi. Mike only feels attraction to a person if there’s trust and a deeper connection. The relationship comes first, not just any relationship either, and then the attraction.

  Brax rewound to that night over a year ago, to him and Holt in a penthouse suite, to Holt scooting next to him on the couch. “I trust you. I know you. I feel connected to you. Safe. And for some reason, that turns me the fuck on. Not anyone else tonight. No one in the past either. Just you. I want you.”

  Holt’s mind had apparently gone to the same place, judging by his next message.

  Oski15: That’s why I only felt a spark with you that night. We have a connection, a real one. A deep one. You’re my best friend. I was attracted to you.

  Was. If he dwelled on that word, Brax might never leave the service, might question every decision he’d made the past five years. He hedged instead.

  Brooklyn11219: That makes sense. I’m sorry I didn’t know.

  Oski15: Don’t be. The term is pretty new, and I didn’t know either, but now I do. I don’t feel so abnormal.

  Brax leaped over the hedge, concern for Holt surging to the forefront again. Was that how he’d made Holt feel that night? Abnormal. He’d wanted to make him feel good, to do something wonderful for, and share something wonderful with, his friend.

  Brooklyn11219: You were never abnormal, Holt. You were always you. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel that way.

  Oski15: No, no, no. You didn’t. Fucking chat. The tone is never right. I should have called.

  Except that was never easy, and at the rate Holt was typing, he probably got the words out faster this way. Words that were flowing again.

  Oski15: I wanted to thank you. For never judging me and for being a safe space when I needed it.

  Brax sighed with relief.

  Brooklyn11219: You did the same for me, and I always will be, whenever you need me.

  Oski15: Thank you for being my family, my friend.

  Then.

  Holt hadn’t typed it, and Brax was certain he hadn’t meant it. Brax was reading into meaning versus Holt leaving something unsaid, but once Brax had thought it, he couldn’t unthink it. The dwelling, it seemed, was inevitable. He couldn’t shake the knot that was forming in his stomach. Holt had all those things back now—family, friends, a safe space. How much longer would he still need him?

  Later That Year

  Brax had laid out everything he needed for the retirement ceremony. Uniform, medals, ribbons. There was just one thing missing.

  The cell phone that had been waiting for him upon his return stateside—fancier than anything he’d ever used—rang. He snatched it off the desk, surprised to see an incoming call from Holt. Was he calling from the airplane?

  “Hey, what’re you—”

  “Cap, I’m so sorry, but I’m not gonna make it. Family emergency.”

  Brax sank onto the edge of the bed, wrinkling his uniform, not giving a shit about it any longer. All his focus was on the phone in his hand and the man on the other end of the line. Hospital sounds were unmistakable in the background, and Holt’s voice was rough and graveled with weariness.

  “What’s going on?” he said. “Talk to me.”

  “Something’s up with my grandfather.” A snick of a door, then the background noise quieted. “We’re at the hospital. Been here since four this morning. Amelia—”

  “The family nurse. You mentioned her before.”

  “Yeah, she’s getting him seen. I know he’s in good hands, but—”

  There were no buts. Holt had flown a number of times over the past two years, and it seemed on every trip something went awry. “Do not fly across the country and get stuck here. Your luck with flights and weather is shit.”

  He chuckled, but it was more tired than amused. “I’m really sorry.”

  So was Brax, the disappointment Titanic-sized, but this wasn’t Holt’s fault. It couldn’t be helped. And this wouldn’t be the first time. More instances like this would occur, especially with Brax’s new job. They had to get used to it. “Hey, it’s okay. You need to be with your family.”

  “I know, but you’re my family too.”

  A knock sounded in the background, followed by a woman’s voice. “Babe, Papa Cal’s awake.”

  Babe.

  Iceberg ahead.

  “I’ll be right there,” Holt said, then to Brax, “I’m sorry I can’t be there, but you won’t be alone. I promise.”

  Later that day at the ceremony, Marsh, Luther, Teague, and Max Bailey, who had just arrived back in the States, sat in the front row. The gathering was Holt Madigan’s doing, making the impossible possible once again. As was the steak dinner afterward. Brax celebrated with their friends into the wee hours of the morning, playing more than a few rounds of cards in Holt’s honor. The next morning, a package about the size of a shoebox and surprisingly heavy was delivered to his room. The return address was San Francisco. Inside was a note and two matching pieces of crystal.

  The first, a nameplate etched with Captain Braxton Kane.

  The second a candy dish with his retirement date and final rank—Lieutenant Colonel—etched along the rim and a poppy flower etched into the bottom.

  He opened the note: Cap, For your new desk. Love, H.

  Brax barely made it to the bed before his legs and heart gave out on him.

  Several Months Later

&nb
sp; Brax: You remember your bunkmate, Max Bailey?

  Holt: Of course. Got his artwork on my arm.

  Brax had still never seen the completed tattoo. Holt was always wearing a flannel in the pictures he sent.

  Holt: He still on base there on the East Coast?

  Brax: Yeah, but he’s discharging later this month. His forwarding address is Daly City. I looked it up on a map. That’s near San Francisco.

  Holt: Yeah, a little south, but via BART, twenty minutes. What’s up?

  Brax: Help him with reentry? He was on an op before he left Casey that went south. Lost some of his unit. He wasn’t in the best place when I saw him at the retirement ceremony.

  Holt: I’m not sure I should be the person helping.

  Brax smiled. He’d heard that line before, and he knew Holt had been getting better, work and friends and the shelter giving him new focus.

  Brax: Jeremy said the same thing when I asked him to help you.

  Holt: For real?

  Brax: Yeah, for real. I think you and Max can help each other.

  Holt: I’ll be there for him.

  The Next Year

  Holt: You remember Amelia?

  How could Brax forget? Holt had mentioned her with increasing frequency in their texts and conversations. He’d had a feeling this was coming. He’d prepared. Closing the police report he’d been reviewing, he stood from his dining table and made a beeline for the kitchen. He opened his baking cabinet and shifted the bags of flour and sugar around, retrieving the emergency bottle from the back corner. Johnnie Walker Blue. Same as he and Holt had shared that night four years ago. He poured two fingers’ worth, tossed it back, refilled his glass, then returned to the table and his phone.

  Brax: Yeah, your grandfather’s favorite.

  Jokes would ease the knot in his gut, right?

  Holt: LOL, that’s her. So, umm, we started dating a while back.

  Wrong.

  Brax: You’ve been holding out on me.

  He was glad this conversation was over text. He could maintain the joking tone this way. Over the phone, it would be impossible to hide the dejection in his voice. Dejection he had no right to. He’d gone back to the desert, then to Boston. He’d told Holt to go home and live his life. Holt had done just that, and he’d found someone who made him happy. Someone closer to his own age. Someone else he had a spark with. He’d done exactly what Brax had told him to do. This was a good thing. Brax had to be happy for him.