Windows
Rain slipped down his windowpane, silken, like tears shed and forgotten quickly. He sighed to himself, scratching a half-healed scab that stained his thumb.
Dustin studied the ugly but fading marks which had been left behind by the electrocution. The arms which had spent two weeks swathed in cloth batting now breathed freely, and only the most seriously affected areas were now heavily bandaged; every day, the dressing had been changed, and each nurse proclaimed him a model patient.
Charity proved to be his modus operandi here; if he remained patient through the dressing changes, they treated his hand injuries with leniency.
The worst part of the entire situation had been the temporary loss of his hands via heavy bandaging and sedatives. Today, they had been released from their bindings at last, coddled instead within protective gloves. The whole of each finger on each hand now stood exposed and, thanks to a bit of physical therapy, wiggled, though marked with varying degrees of scabbing.
He smiled. Booker had been persuaded to leave his bedside because of this good news; at the moment, he was running around town, getting stuff to speed along their celebration.
His eyes scanned a monitor that had been bolted into position near the ceiling. John Wayne spanked Maureen O'Hara on the screen; rolling his eyes, he tapped a button on his remote. Channels cycled in an endless pattern over his head until a Steve McQueen movie popped up. He smirked, with only the slightest feeling of vengeance; let Vince pick up the tab.
The company had shown suitable fright when the electrocution stunt had gone wrong. Vince had been ready to do anything to avoid a lawsuit, and so he lay in a private room overlooking a harbor, with the best possible care. Mostly, there was the greatest sense of relief that he hadn't died in the front office, co-mingled with an urgency to cater to him. Vince swore there would be a new gimmick for him when he returned, a renewed push. But when Vince asked him how he 'felt about Tourette's syndrome', he simply hung the phone up.
There would be hell to pay for that down the line. 'Down the line' where the operative words.
The boys, of course, wore ears more sympathetic. Tasteful bouquets warred with tasteless gifts for space in his room. The most frantic had been Randy Orton, whose pursuit of forgiveness included everything from a case of Michelob to several Polaroids of his grinning, goofy, bare-assed self.
Those photos, of course, hadn't pleased Booker, while Dustin had been riotously amused. A call to Randy's cell provided an explanation; he was trying to 'make Dustin feel better' and thought he 'might like it' because he 'was...you know..'. It had provided Dustin with his biggest laugh since his injury. Poor, clueless kid. He had no idea about the whens and whats of Dustin's sexual life, but cared enough to make him feel better.
The Orton kid was still a dope, though. And now stood in line for a major rib from Booker when they ended up back on the road.
Everyone involved in the angle had tried to beg Dustin's forgiveness through the power of money; Ric Flair had sent a large bottle of expensive champagne, Dave Batista, for some weird reason, had sent along a box of chocolates from a ritzy boutique in Beverly Hills. Even Hunter had descended from his pedestal and sent along some cashmere slippers, one of which had taken an unfortunate leap into a full bedpan.
All of this for a few burn marks.
No. Dustin corrected himself; more than just burn marks. On his forearms, which had impacted most of the bump, there were deep tissue burns about the size of a coaster. Errant sparks had left small, superficial burns on his cheeks and chin. The heat from the shock had caused two congruent fillings in the right side of his mouth to meld together, requiring the immediate attention of a dentist. But, more importantly, the shock had briefly caused an arrhythmia in his heart, the chief reason behind his hospitalization.
Booker had been frightened to death, resultantly sending him into some sort of posturing macho overload. Dustin rolled his eyes at the memory; he didn't need any he-man to conquer the world for him.
Four days of monitors and stress testing showed that no permanent damage had occurred during the electrocution, which had taken much of the tension off of Booker and their relationship.
The past two weeks had been a dream; a hazy, painkiller-tainted one for Dustin, but one that had more than its fare share of virtues. It produced a peaceful emotion, one that held an influence that extended to other vital relationships in Dustin's life.
That one little moment had healed the long-festering rift between he and Dusty. One day, completely out of the blue, his father was at the other end of the phone; now they had plans to meet out on Dustin's ranch for a day.
Better yet, Terri and Dakota now had a great excuse to spend time with him; resultantly, Dustin now knew more about his daughter than ever before. Terri and Booker's relationship had also changed somewhat over the ensuing week; less combativeness, more tolerance.
The smallest tragedies for the greatest gain...someone had to have said that in a Hollywood script at one point. His musings were interrupted as Booker entered the room, hauling in a sack of food and a tote bag from home.
"Baby," He rasped, smiling widely.
"Babe," Dustin echoed, accepting a kiss from his lover as Booker proceeded to distribute dinner upon a side table. Today marked another joyful milestone; the first day since the accident that Dustin would be allowed to consume solids, more importantly, be able to feed himself solids. Booker proceeded to slice up his meat without asking, perhaps out of instinct. It annoyed Dustin, but he brooked no argument. Too much love showed through the gesture.
Booker still stared at Dustin as though his first bite showed some hidden greatness. But no further worship was afforded them; the meal continued as though it were every one they'd shared since their first meeting.
Afterwards, Booker carried his chair to the closest position possible to his lover, and Dustin once more cursed the width and length of his body, which seemed to swallow the bed beneath him. Booker never seemed to mind, and if he did, never mentioned the awkwardness of their forced position. He made himself more comfortable for another long night draped over a hard, uncomfortable chair, dropping his shoes and coat to the floor. He plucked an item out of the black tote bag.
"Aww, Book!" Dustin carefully caressed the item, reveling in the realization that he could, at last, feel what lay beneath his fingers, "Hollywood Babylon!"
"Yeah," His lover grinned, "Wanna hear a story?"
Dustin smiled, shifting carefully, "Well, since I'm three today..." He tilted his head as Booker opened the book and began to read.
"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Spanish actress named Lupe Velez. She came to Hollywood and starred in a whole bunch of films. Hollywood named her the princess of Spanish...er, stuff. Then, one day, Lupe met Tarzan, and..." Dustin listened raptly as Lupe entered into a mad, wild marriage with 'Tarzan', which ended in a firestorm of passion too hot for a mere mortal to withstand. Dustin understood Lupe; her heart beat so strongly that, in her pre-Pill universe, it destroyed her. His passion for Booker and life lay in equal capacity, proved just as strong, but no pain lay between them. There would be no destruction, he would be sure of that.
"...And then she choked to death on her own puke. The end."
Dustin laughed out loud; a true but sad ending to Lupe's life. "Do you think she made it to heaven, after all?"
Booker's expression was sanguine, "Baby, she killed herself 'cause some guy knocked her up."
"Stupid reason to die," Dustin sighed, shrugging, feeling mournful for the too-numerous amount of Hollywood goddesses who had died in the gutter, "All the glamorous ones go out badly, I guess."
"Hey," Booker smiled, releasing the trashy class study and gingerly taking his lover's hand in his own, "Not you."
"I know," Dustin responded, holding Booker as strongly, with his heart and not his weak body, "Not me." His mind refrained discordantly not yet
Yet he survived; was marked, but his heart beat incessantly. If dark clouds plodded outside of his hospital room window, he did not see them.