#lmao i didn't do it on purpose actually billy didn't have anything until the idea came to me randomly

[thedeviljudges]

lucky number seven

Steve switches on the television, watches as the black fades from sparks of gray and multi-colored lights into a crystal clear image of Wheel of Fortune. There’s a ding and some shouting, and as he steps away from the medium, someone clears their throat and mumbles, “Can you turn that up, dear?”

He obliges, gives Rosie a smile and replies, “If we turn it up any louder, people will think we’re in a rave.”

She laughs softly, a little roughly from the scratch in her throat. “Wouldn’t that be something.”

“Is this good?” Steve asks after clicking the button, the rising number on the screen set to a level he knows he personally wouldn’t be comfortable with. It’s not about him here, though. He takes care of them the best he knows how, and sometimes that means exhaustion and over stimulation from the differences in how he functions in his life versus the people he takes care of.

“Better,” comes the reply, and with that, Steve leaves, knows Rosie won’t go anywhere any time soon. There’s a lineup on the television. It’s always on at the same time every day, and it’s the reprieve he needs to catch up on all his other rounds.

Heading straight for the reception desk, Steve rounds the corner, tapping his fingers against the surface of the wood. The folders he needs are tucked away under the desk, alphabetized and ready to find. There’s usually a chart on the computer, the one the receptionist is using, and Steve would normally bug her for information about who’s next on his list, but he knows this one. Like the back of his hand, Steve unfortunately pulls the file of his least favorite resident.

“If you frown any harder, your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Steve blinks, turns toward the voice and finds Robin at the end of it. Her fingernail clacks against the mouse her hand is resting over, eyebrows raised like her point is important.

“I’m not frowning.”

She huffs a laugh and shrugs, turning back to what Steve guesses is college homework. Relief, in some sense, finds his way throughout his muscles. Then again, Steve hardly made it through his first round, and the thought of Robin going further in education is both daunting and excessive if not admirable. “Lies, Harrington.”

In return, Steve tsks but doesn’t argue. So maybe he’d been frowning, but it’s only because he’s on his next rounds. An unlikely presence in a home like this, where visitors come and go freely, where most of the residents are happy as they can be in a world that moves too fast for them now.

He doesn’t want to go, would rather avoid the next room altogether, but with a sigh, he closes the folder, places it back where it belongs and heads toward the bay. The medicine sits stacked in rows, locked behind a thick door in case anyone tries anything funny. He measures what he needs, pops the top off of a few bottles and grabs two cups for his journey.

The walls of the nursing home are pale yellow. Steve’s visited a few in his lifetime before working here, and he thinks they always choose the most mundane colors. They’re always dated, and he can’t tell if it’s a sign of the times or purposefully done to accommodate a sense of familiarity within the residents. Steve thinks that routine is much more conducive, but he’s not a painter, and his decision comes last in these matters.

Instead, he gets to decide whether he wants to enter room 104. It’s cracked halfway open, the television glaringly loud. It’s not that he hates the mister inside, but he gives Steve a run for his money when he’s having a bad day.

Most days are bad days.

Squaring his shoulders, Steve gently raps his knuckles against the wood frame of the door, pushing it open to find his patient sitting up in bed. The clothes he wears are from the night and not usually what Steve expects from him at this time of day. It’s nearing nine, knows there’s something to be said about starting the day off early, that previous sentiment racketing his brain from a redundant lecture.

“Good morning, Mr. Hargrove,” Steve says.

The man grunts in reply, but that’s all he gives Steve to work with. Eyes stare far away from the door to the blue light emanating from the tiny screen hanging from the wall. Voices echo in the space they have, somewhat small and refined because most of the folks living here have very little possessions, and if they had more, they weren’t always allowed to bring them in. Glass trinkets are dangerous and useless stuff after they pass is thrown into the trash. Most bring in books and pictures encapsulated in plastic frames, a reminder that they belong somewhere than just a home for the old.

But this room is bare to its core. The man inside no exception.

“I’ve your medicine for you,” he says gently, feet shuffling across the tile. Slippers sit next to the bed, ready for use, that Steve carefully maneuvers around. There’s not a lot of places to walk around like the shoes imply, and Steve often feels guilty they don’t have a better outdoor situation. The halls are only so long, and supervision is often required for other patients, but the sun would be nice sometimes.

Sometimes.

Steve sets the cups down on the nightstand and waits. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that patience goes a long way with Mr. Hargrove, unfortunately. The inconvenience trifles with the limited time on his hands, always cutting it close with the next visit on his list.

“Don’t want none of that.”

Dwelling within his lungs is the urge to release all the air, let them deflate while oxygen runs across his teeth. The day doesn’t have to be difficult, but there’s always a caveat.

“I know Mr. Hargrove,” Steve says alongside sympathy. “But you know you have to. They’ll help you feel better.”

It’s a wry look he receives, dark pupils staring at him from the corner of older eyes. The crow’s feet are jagged lines that run from the corners of the eyelid back toward the thinning line of hair, what little is left.

The silence balloons between them, only the television playing against the stillness. Steve hears the remnants of Rosie’s show ringing in his ears, played on repeat from all the times he’s turned the television on just in time for a contestant to spit an answer.

He’s sure neither of them know how long they stand there, Steve not forcing his hand quite yet. There’s protocols and the like for individuals who make a rough go of it, but Steve often feels a little too nice to take those measures if he can do his best to coax everyone to follow directions.

After enough time has passed, and just when Steve is about to throw in the rag and try other bargaining tools, Mr. Hargrove’s fingers twitch, shoulders slumping as he angles himself properly. “Hand me the damn cups.”

Steve obliges, not saying a word least that propel the man’s decision to cooperate in another direction. With a watchful gaze, Steve makes sure that Mr. Hargrove swallows his pills, hands him the water when he’s got them in his mouth and breathes as evenly as he can in order to avoid further suspicion of his relief.

When he’s done with them both, he hands the cups back to Steve with another grunt, an aborted noise of dissatisfaction escaping past his lips.

“I’ll be back later for lunch,” Steve says gently against the noise of cheering. Blinking away from a stony face, it’s the first time he sees the television for what it is. A bunch of cars on a track racing in circles and counting down laps. “Call if you need anything.”

The cups give way in his hands, crumbling under the pressure of a curled fist. Steve doesn’t wait for a reply, and truth be told, he knows better than to. His shoes squeak as he walks across the tile and through the door, discarding the cups in the trash near the front desk. The file cabinet is already halfway open by the time he makes his way around the counter, Robin rolling back to position and paying him no mind.

Deep down, Steve’s okay. The draft from a room filled with contempt is stifling, but at least it’s another day for the books. At the very least, he can take that and run with it.

++

“Some motherfucker always has the nerve to take my damn parking spot.”

Robin’s ponytail swings in a fluttery mess of golden-brown, and Steve finds the map of freckles highlighted across her face from the hues of light cascading through the open blinds as she tilts her head.

“If you’d learn to be on time, dingus, then maybe you wouldn’t have a problem.”

“I’d argue that you’re doing it on purpose, but I know that’s not it. It’s not your car.” Steve removes the jacket from his shoulders, shaking the left sleeve until it slowly crawls down his arm. It’s an annoying thing he finds with the uniforms they have to wear; they cling to everything, and he finds that he gets stuck in clothes more often than he’s able to take them all off.

The jacket goes on the coat rack, Steve dropping into the second chair behind the desk. It’s early in the morning, and the crew on the overnight shift hasn’t yet left. Steve hears them shuffling about, gathering things that need to be cleaned and dumping the overnight trash into the bins.

“Hey, did you ever find out-”

“Fuck you, old man.”

Robin’s eyes meet Steve’s, going wide as her mouth slowly closes, silencing the question on her tongue. There’s more muffled comments that Steve can’t quite make out, but it drifts down the hall. It’s an argument if he’s ever heard one, and the hairs on his arm raise from the exaggerated scenarios running through his head.

They have protocol for unruly patients, but the most they’ve ever been instructed to do with possible visitors is call the police. Steve scans the reception area and finds no phone readily available. “Rock, paper, scissors?” he asks with a shoulder shrug.

Robin gives him a look, sighing. Her body isn’t rigid likes Steve, and he guesses that maybe she’s not been on the other end of a yelling match. That isn’t to say Steve enjoys them much, but his father has a way with words.

As he’s thinking, Robin brushes past him, startling him. Reaching out, he gentle grasps her wrist. “Let me handle it.”

Pointedly, she takes a look at his temple, the little scar left over from when he got into it with Tommy in senior year. Robin had been witness to it, played nurse and made him sit through the pain of the alcohol she’d used to wipe up the blood and clean the cut.

To avoid further conflict, and because there’s still deep voices resonated from down the hall, Steve pulls the puppy eyes that practically gets him anything he wants. Robin, normally immune, hesitates as she looks back. It’s cute, he thinks, that someone is actually worried for his safety. That’s still a thing he’s not use to, but he tugs at her wrist as he stands up, positions himself in front of her and smiles. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

He feels like those are famous last words. Not that he actually believes in harms way, but Steve has seen patients act out or have episodes that leave people with scratches and pretty bruises. It’s not their fault, he knows; old age is nothing that he can outrun, but a body in distress isn’t always the easiest to handle.

He leaves Robin there, notices her sit back down out of the corner of his eye, and he’s relieved for that. Usually she’s the type to follow, always has Steve’s back in whatever dumb shit he’s trying to do, but truth be told, he’s been hurt far more than she has, and well, Steve has always been a bit of a mother hen.

As he walks down the hall, the voices become clearer until there’s nothing left. Steve, as he’d been listening this morning to the scrape of employee shoes on the floor, finds that there’s a much deeper set of footsteps amidst the others. When he pauses, peering into every room as he walks in case something is off, a door at the end of the hall opens. It catches his attention immediately with the force of the swing.

Dread immediately fills his body.

There’s a pair of boots on the floor, accompanied by legs in jeans. Steve trails his gaze up, following the shape of a human body leaving Neil Hargrove’s room.

Neil never has guests.

He’s blond. That’s the first thing Steve takes notice of. Untamed curly hair. Thick brows. Pink lips. The list goes on really, and Steve bits the inside of his cheek to bring himself back into focus. Into the real meaning of why he’s standing in the middle of the hall like an idiot while he tries to figure out who the fuck this man is, and how he knows Neil of all people.

When Steve focuses again, the man with no name is leaning against the wall just outside the door, runs his hands through those curls. There’s a tick in his jaw, unreleased tension building in the way he holds himself—in the slope of his shoulders, in the way his fingers tap against his jeans like he’s itching for something to do.

A good amount of time passes, lost in thought, lost in a hallway with no indication of time sifting through the ether. Steve stands there, and the man stays there until they both gain composure, Steve only moving when his companion pushes himself away from the wall.

As soon as he turns, he spots Steve. It’s kinda hard to miss him when he’s in turquoise scrubs against a yellow backdrop of nursing home walls. There’s the initial pause that comes, the startling thought of being caught so intimately, and then the inevitable change of facial features into one of pure anger.

Steve might’ve fucked up on this one.

His throat works, thick with saliva and unable to churn out the words he needs to bring help to a situation that had deescalated but might shift in reverse any second. The furrow in the other man’s brow creases, eyes glassy but hard, akin to a stone caricature. It’s like a gunslinger’s battle just without the weapons, and Steve feels his pulse escalating until it drops, suddenly.

Like a balloon bursting, the man licks the front of his teeth, smiles in the most dangerous way and continues down the hall like nothing happened at all.

Steve catches a glimpse of him as he passes. Pretty blue eyes and a chain around his neck. The denim jacket smells like subtle cologne, and before he has a chance to ask, the sound of heavy boots are disappearing.

The decision to run after him or go check on Mr. Hargrove is difficult. It’s obligations on both ends of the spectrum, but at the end of the day, it’s Neil that lives here so Steve shakes his head to unstir his thoughts until he’s planted in front of an open door and a bare room with nothing but someone inside.

Neil is in his wheelchair today rather than his bed. Steve would take it has a good sign if it weren’t for the way he’s got his leg stretched out in front of him. There’s the thought that maybe his visitor had done something wrong, busted up the knee and left behind pain, but Neil gives him a look that shuts him up, reminiscent of blue eyes who’d argued to speak his mind.

“Get the fuck out,” he grumbles in reply, reaching for the remote. The television isn’t so loud this time, doesn’t bounce off the walls like he’s used to. Steve doesn’t listen, not until Neil flips through the channels and settles on his station of choice.

It’s always the cars. Always the stupid cars on the track. The numbers counting down and Steve unaware of the rules of the game.

He suspects that Neil is fine, would probably bitch at him if he wasn’t. So Steve says, “let me know if you need anything,” and is just about to step out when Neil huffs out laughter.

At first, it sounds like it’s aimed at him. Steve feels that tell-tale leak of shame in his chest for wanting to be helpful and productive, but the flicker of the tv screen changes his mind in an instant.

It’s not just cars anymore. It’s a list of drivers with their sponsors and their numbers, and Steve can’t miss it for the world. Couldn’t if he tried.

Number 61 has vivid blue eyes. Curly blond hair, and a self-deprecating smirk that rings all too familiar.