The One That Got Away

DAVID CARMICHAEL groaned when the bright sunlight hit his eyes as he walked from his office to The Mirror's parking garage. His light blue eyes were sensitive anyway, and, today, when he needed them most, he'd left his sunglasses on the kitchen table. The fever and headache had started during the morning editorial meeting. By the time the news and features assignments were agreed on, he could barely focus. He hadn't suffered a migraine in almost a year, but he remembered the symptoms well. Telling his assistant he'd be out of the office for the rest of the day, he grabbed his keys and briefcase and headed home.

Pulling into his driveway, David folded himself out of his car, holding onto the door until the dizziness passed. He'd had to pull over twice on the way home to throw up and wanted nothing more than to pass out in a cool, dark room. Praying that he had some of his old prescription pills still in his medicine cabinet, he groped his way into the house and down the hall. He hadn't even bothered to bring his briefcase and cell phone inside. There was no way he was getting any work done today.

Ten minutes later, dressed in nothing but boxers, David ran a frustrated hand through his short blond hair, leaving it spiked up messily. Tearing open the bedside drawer, he plundered the contents, condoms and cigarettes and more falling to the floor. No medicine. "Fuck!" he swore. He could call the doctor and get some called in, but there was no way he could drive to the pharmacy.

Collapsing on the bed that was just too tempting to ignore, he reached for the phone. First he called his doctor's office. The nurse promised to call in a fresh set of refills for his prescription. Second, after a few moments' thought, he phoned Trace. If you couldn't call on your best friend to bring you medicine, when could you call him?

Trace was driving down Seaside Drive with the top down when his phone rang. He hit the button on his Bluetooth headset. "Trace Jackson," he said.

"Trace," David rasped. He rolled over so the phone was pressed between his ear and the pillow. He was too drained to hold it up. "I need your help."

"David? You sound like shit," Trace said, voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah." David shifted and swallowed down another wave of nausea. "I've got a migraine... bad."

"Hell. Been a long time since you had one of those. You got your meds? Where are you?" Trace asked.

"No, no meds. Can't find them, or I threw them out. It's been so long. The nurse called some in. Walgreens on Eighth." David paused to catch his breath. Even his own voice in his head was too loud.

"David, man, go lie down. Put a wet washcloth over your eyes or something. I'll pick up the meds. Anything else? Gatorade?" Trace asked as he pulled into a parking lot to turn around and head back to town.

"Already lying down, but the fuckin' bed is spinning. Just get me drugs."

"All right. I'll be there soon," Trace said, hitting the button to end the call and focus on traffic. He wanted to get there as soon as possible. It had been a long time since David had had a migraine, but when he got one, it was usually a doozy.

Half an hour later, Trace pulled his cobalt blue Mustang convertible up behind David's sporty sedan and hurried to the back door of the well-kept house, prescription bag in hand. Using his key, he went straight into the kitchen, tossed the bag on the counter, and filled a glass with cold water from the fridge dispenser. He tore open the bag and fumbled with the bottle, cussing the childproof top under his breath. Pills in hand, he grabbed the glass of water and headed back to David's room.

It was dim inside, the forest green drapes blocking out almost all the light, and Trace could see his friend curled up on the bed. "David?" he said softly, walking over to perch next to him on the edge of the mattress.

David moaned as the bed rocked. Cracking one eye open, he looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered man looking down at him, brows drawn together in worry. "I'm not dying," he croaked. "No matter how much I might wish it."

Trace winced. David's sunken eyes clearly reflected pain, and the laugh lines around those eyes and his mouth were heavily creased. "Here," Trace said quietly. "I bring pain relief."

"My hero." David reached for the pills, lifting up on his elbow to accept the glass and gulp down the water.

Nodding, Trace waited to take back the glass. After setting it on the nightstand, he ran his hand lightly over David's forehead. "You're hot too," Trace said. He stood up and went to the bathroom, wet a cloth with cool water, and brought it back to gently settle it over David's eyes.

David hissed as the cold cloth hit his overheated skin. His entire body shuddered. "Covers," he said, struggling to get up so he could get under the blanket.

Frowning, Trace took the cloth back and reached to pull down the sheets and quilted blanket while David slid his tense body under them. Trace pulled up the covers and tucked them around David's shoulders. "Sorry, man," he murmured. David looked really miserable.

"Thanks for playing errand boy. I'm sorry I interrupted your day. Go back to work. I'll live. I'm too ornery to die." David chuckled at his own joke and then winced as stabbing pain shot through his head until he was gasping. "Fuck," he panted, lying limp.

"I think I'll stick around, just in case. I've not seen you hurting this bad in a long time," Trace murmured as he resettled the cloth on David's forehead. "Humor me, okay?"

David would have glared at his friend if the muscles in his face didn't hurt so badly. Instead he settled for a small frown as a complaint and reached up to tug lightly on the tail of dark brown hair brushing over Trace's shoulder. "When was the last time you cut your hair, Jackson?" It was petty, but doing something as normal as picking on his friend's habit of wearing his hair so long it brushed below his shoulders made David feel just slightly better. It was a longtime tease; Trace didn't mind. He drifted to sleep with one corner of his mouth crooked up.

Trace's mouth quirked as David ribbed him. He held the cool cloth against David's face for a while and then set it aside. Sitting there, he decided he might as well work on his current project, so he went out to the car and got his laptop and notes. Once inside, he headed back to the bedroom to be close in case David needed him.

He kicked off his black dress shoes, shed his suit jacket, and pulled his tie loose, tossing it onto David's dresser. He snapped on the small shaded lamp on the nightstand and climbed onto the opposite side of the huge bed from David, booted up the laptop, slid his horn-rimmed glasses on, and settled in to work.


DAVID was kicked back in his upholstered office chair with his feet propped up on his desk, mostly asleep, and he could hear his assistant busily typing away on her keyboard. He decided he'd better get up before his back ached and started to move, but his feet were tangled in twisted-up phone cord. He started to fall....

Waking with a start that jarred his head as his eyes popped open, David cried out in pain as he attempted to sit up, his legs thrashing in the blanket wrapped around him.

As soon as David started moving, Trace dropped his pen and notebook and reached over, trying to calm him down. "David. Hey, you're okay," he said, trying to pull at the blanket so David wouldn't wrap it any tighter around himself. He held onto his laptop with his other hand, trying to keep it from sliding off his thighs.

Trace? What the fuck is Trace doing in my office? The two men had been friends for ages, but since they worked for rival newspapers, they never visited each other at work. "Trace? What? Why?"

"David," Trace said patiently. "C'mon. Wake up. You're hopped up on pain meds, man." He squeezed David's shoulder gently.

David blinked his eyes as the dimly lit room started swimming into focus. Trace was half-leaning over him. "Oh, wouldn't The Mirror just love to get a picture of this: Warring newspaper correspondents found in bed together. I can see the headlines now. Katherine would have her panties in a serious twist," David said, the words coming out sort of garbled. "Fuck, I'm thirsty. I feel like a circus train's traveled though my mouth." His head rolled to the side, landing against Trace's firm thigh instead of the thick, downy pillow usually there, and he yanked it back, causing a spike of pain and wave of dizziness.

"Careful," Trace cautioned, reaching out to help steady him. "You still look like hell. Hang on. I'll get you something to drink." He set the laptop down on the bed and stood up gingerly, trying not to jostle the mattress. "Stay put," he ordered with a pointed finger before leaving the room.

"Like I have a choice," David muttered, sinking back against the pillows gingerly. Glancing at the alarm clock on the end of the dresser, across from the foot of the bed, he mentally calculated. He was at the supposed peak of the medicine's effectiveness, and the headache was still there - not as bad, but still there and strong. That didn't bode well. The prescription worked, but not for the full six hours before he could take another dose. And if two and a half hours in he still had symptoms this bad, it would be back with a vengeance in another two. He needed to try to eat while he might be able to keep food down, and it was probably foolish to try something that required a decent amount of balance, but he really wanted a shower too.


TRACE reentered the room carrying a tall glass of the decaffeinated iced tea David kept in the fridge. "Try this," he suggested, sitting on the edge of the bed near him. Sometime over the past couple of hours he'd pulled his hair loose of the band he used to tie it back, and he was wearing his glasses, something he hated doing around other people. But David had seen them before.

David smiled at him, that funny half-smirk. Trace knew it was another poke at his disheveled appearance. He had a self-styled, swanky, fashion-plate reputation that he wasn't living up to at the moment. It was one of the things that made their friendship so genuine - Trace was willing to look sloppy around David.

Reaching for the glass, David swallowed half of it in one gulp before his stomach lurched in protest. He set it carefully on the nightstand. "Thanks."

Nodding, Trace leaned on one hand on the mattress. "Pills not helping, huh?" Trace followed his eyes as David glanced at his reflection in the mirror across from the bed. Normally blond and hale and healthy, David's face had a gray tinge, and his eyes looked clouded. It was a big change.

David let his eyes close. "Oh, they're helping, but when I get one this bad, they just cut the pain. They don't kill it."

"Anything else help?" Trace asked, glancing at the floor as his sock-clad foot slipped on something. He pushed his glasses up absently, seeing the mess scattered around the nightstand. "I see you rifled the drawers looking for your pills," he said, reaching down to pick up the magazine his foot had touched.

"Would I ever hear the end of it if I asked you to rub my shoulders and maybe my scalp?"

Looking back to David before he turned over the magazine to see the front cover, Trace frowned slightly. "You're hurting, David. If I can help, it's no problem."

David rolled over and pushed the pillow out of the way so he could lie flat on the bed. "Thanks, Trace. At this point I'd even take the razzing. I owe you one."

Trace dropped the American Journalism Review in the drawer and paused long enough to scoop up the rest of the mess as well, raising a brow a bit at some of the dumped contents: pens and notebooks, of course; condoms and lubricant - he wasn't surprised at that; a half-empty bag of wintergreen candies; a lighter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Trace frowned. He thought David had quit. He dumped it all in the drawer before noticing something half under the bed, so he bent over a little more to reach for it.

Trace's fingers closed around something cool that felt like soft rubber, but it was cylindrical and.... He blinked when he pulled a dildo out from under the bed. His eyes flickered to David in surprise, but the other man was lying there with his eyes closed. Trace was tempted - really, really tempted - to start that expected razzing right now. He looked back down at it, heavy and thick and about eight inches long, and then he laid it in the drawer and pushed the drawer closed.

Turning a little more to pull one knee up on the bed, Trace slid his fingers into David's hair and started rubbing gently with one hand before adding the other for a soothing massage. Meanwhile, he thought about what he'd found. There were easy answers, sure. There were also more... interesting... answers, knowing what he did about David. So, no. Probably not something to tease about. At least not right now. Trace kept his out-of-place musings silently to himself and smiled, amused by the direction of his thoughts.

David moaned, making a sound of sublime pleasure instead of pain for the first time since this headache had hit. "God, that's good. Just a little harder."

Now that his mind was on things erotic, Trace couldn't help but interpret the tone of David's voice in that context. As he strengthened the rubbing, he stifled a chuckle. He figured David had a healthy sex life, but it was just one of those things they hadn't happened to talk about over the years, especially since their tastes didn't mesh. Trace's social life was constantly the subject of gossip around town, so it was no surprise that David would be familiar with his friend's bed-hopping. Trace supposed he'd assumed that David was just private about his affairs. Nothing wrong with that.

The noises coming from the other man sounded pretty good to Trace - not that he'd ever heard another man during sex, with the exception of in a movie. He kept sliding his fingers over David's skull with one hand shifting through the gold-shaded hair, sliding the other down to the base of David's neck and lightly kneading with strong fingers.

David's shoulders rose into the touch, and he purred. Between the medicine and the light touch, he felt better than he had in hours. "You have fuckin' brilliant hands."

"So I've been told," Trace drawled, working more on David's neck.

David took a deep breath, relaxing into the physical attentions and the silence wrapped around him. As the massage relieved more and more of the pain, his body began reacting in a different way, his cock twitching where it lay trapped between his body and the mattress. David tensed, the pain returning slightly and dissuading his cock from its interest - which he knew was for the best. A good friend was a rare find, and Trace was the best. He and Trace had been friends for years without the slightest hint of sexual attraction. They were buddies, and David was absolutely certain Trace was totally straight. They talked politics and sports, not sex, and his friend had quite the social reputation that spoke for itself. Either way, David had no interest in losing his best friend over a quick roll in the proverbial hay. "I think maybe I'll try to take a shower while I still feel halfway decent," he mumbled into the sheet.

Trace's hands paused in their rubbing. "What do you mean, 'still'?" he asked, brow furrowing. "Is the migraine going to get worse?" he asked in concern, restarting the massage gently. It bothered him to see his best friend hurting so much.

"Yeah, if I can head them off in the first hour, sometimes one dose will make them go away, but when it gets a good foothold like it did today, it's usually more like twenty-four hours. The problem is that I can only take a dose every six hours, and the pain relief lasts four at best." David told himself he should move, but Trace's fingers felt so good that he couldn't bring himself to tell him to stop.

"What kind of for-shit meds are those?" Trace asked, exasperated. "All right. Get a shower. Sure I can't fix you something to eat?" He slowly eased his hands out of his friend's hair, not wanting to pull it accidentally and cause David any more pain.

"Yeah, I should try to eat. Check the pantry and see if I have any soup. Needs to be broth, not cream." David grimaced as he moved off the bed. "I'm gonna leave the door open. Between the headache and the meds, I might be a little unstable."

"Just be careful, David. You don't need a broken arm or something," Trace said, standing up and watching David cautiously to make sure he at least made it to the next room.

Once inside the soothing pale green and sandstone bathroom, David stripped out of his boxers and sat on the edge of the tub to keep from leaning over while he started the shower. He stood and stepped into the warm spray, braced his hands on the cool stone wall, and let the water sluice over his body. Between the medicine, Trace's hands, and the shower, he was actually feeling almost normal.

When he started to feel a little shaky, David finally shut off the water, got out of the tub, and reached for a towel to blot the skin of his upper body. Even the lightest pull on the curly blond hair blanketing his chest and belly hurt. It was amazing how sensitive a migraine made everything.

Bending down to dry his legs, the room started to spin. "Fuck," was all he got out as the world tilted and went black.

Trace was in the kitchen stirring the soup when he heard a loud thump. His eyes widened, and he dropped the spoon and ran, yanking himself around the corner and barreling down the hall into the bedroom and to the bathroom door. "Shit!" he swore when he saw David awkwardly sprawled on the floor. He knelt down and pulled David into more of a sitting position, feeling around the back of his head, relieved to find no blood.

Heart still pounding from the scare, Trace cursed under his breath and held David against his chest. "David. David?" He lightly patted the other man's cheek, unsure what to do other than call 911.

"Trace?" David mumbled.

Pinpoints of light, like the sparklers kids use on the Fourth of July, played on the dark backdrop of David's eyelids. His head was throbbing again and so was his shoulder. He could hear Trace's voice, but it sounded far away. "Trace?"

"David? Come on, open your eyes. Please? You're scaring the hell outta me."

David spoke, and his voice was gravelly. "I'm okay. Head just hurts like hell. The last thing I remember was being in the shower."

"Yeah, well, now you're on the floor. Did you hurt anything? Did you hit your head?" Trace looked over David's face anxiously.

"I don't know." David opened his eyes and winced, immediately closing them again. "My shoulder hurts too."

The quick flutter of David's eyes wasn't enough for Trace to judge his condition one way or another. "Which shoulder? The one you were lying on?" Trace slid his arm up to David's right shoulder, squeezing the joint gently.

"Ow! Fuck, yeah, that'd be the one. Flip the lights off, will ya, so I can hobble my way back to bed."

"I'm helping you this time. Shit, David. You could have broken something, or worse." Trace's voice was ragged with concern as he half-lifted David from the floor and helped him stay on his feet. Being a couple inches taller than David's six feet helped. It wasn't until he slid his arm around David's waist and his fingers settled on a bare hip that he realized David was still nude. Well, it won't matter once he's between the sheets.

Grateful for the support, David leaned into Trace's strength, the friction of his friend's clothes highlighting his own lack of covering. "Fuck," he muttered, whispering a silent prayer that their friendship would survive this day.

"What?" Trace asked, voice sharp with worry as they limped their way across deep green carpeting to the bed. "You okay? Something else hurting?"

"No, I just realized I was naked as a jaybird. You should be getting hazard pay for this visit." Sitting on the side of the bed, David nodded gingerly toward the dresser. "You want to get me some boxers so I don't offend your delicate sensibilities?"

Trace snorted. "Now I know you're drugged out of your skull. Me? Delicate sensibilities? I've got a set of the same gear myself. I think I'll survive the embarrassment." He reached up and pulled the sheets out of the way, waiting for David to shift and get under the covers. Then he grabbed three of the four pillows and propped David up on them.

Mostly satisfied that David was safely settled, Trace said, "I'll get the soup, if it's not scorched by now. I sort of dropped the spoon and ran."

"Okay," David said faintly as Trace left the bedroom.

The soup was indeed ruined, so Trace dumped it into the sink and started a new pot. It only took about ten minutes, and he headed back to the bedroom with two mugs and a sleeve of crackers. "Here you go. First-class service," he said drolly, setting the mug on the nightstand nearest David. Florence Nightingale was not a role he'd ever have cast himself in, but he figured he was doing an okay job. Besides the whole letting him splat onto the bathroom floor thing.

He walked around the bed and sat on the other side, carefully opened the crackers, and set the sleeve on the sheets between them.

"I can't believe your lovers let you get away with eating crackers in bed," David exclaimed, blowing the steam off the top of his soup.

Trace shrugged, munching on a crisp, salty wafer. "It's usually my bed, so I do what I want, right?" He sipped at the soup carefully before picking up a cracker and handing it to David. "Besides. You're not my lover, so all bets are off. No point in trying to impress you with my manners if I'm not going to score." He had a flash of sitting naked in bed with David for a reason other than illness, the easy camaraderie they shared spilling over into a more intimate relationship. Trace almost snorted his soup over the image and had to quietly laugh at himself.

David felt a momentary pang but dismissed it as a side effect of the migraine. His initial flippant retort died on his tongue. "No.... No, I'm not your lover, and based on your usual type that's not likely to change," he answered, his voice a little breathy.

Glancing sideways at David, Trace helped himself to another cracker. "So. Three hours until you can take another pill. You ought to try to sleep. I'll wake you up when it's time," he suggested, thinking about the progress he could make on his performance arts center impact report in the meantime.

Setting the still more-than-half-full mug aside, David slid down in the bed and pulled the cool sheets up. "Yeah. I think I'll try to do that. Lover or not, don't get crumbs in my bed, Jackson."

Trace watched David get comfortable and then went back to his soup without comment. It wasn't long before David's breaths evened out. Setting aside his empty mug a few minutes later, Trace watched David for a bit, still worried about him. Then he pulled his laptop within reach and got back to work.

The next thing he knew, a SOFT beeping woke him up slowly. He frowned, trying to figure out what it was and why he was so uncomfortable. He loved his soft, cushy, Sleep Number bed. Trace pried open his eyes. His focus was off because his glasses were skewed half off his face. He straightened them and looked around.

"Oh. Yeah," he murmured. He was at David's - in David's bed, actually - slumped against the smooth, polished headboard fully dressed and now totally wrinkled. The lamp on the table next to him threw soft light over the room, and the beeping was coming from his laptop's low battery alert. It was tilted onto its side, having slid off Trace's legs. Settling it in a more stable position, he looked down at his patient.

David lay curled up next to him, and his blond head was pillowed on Trace's thigh. Trace's arm was curled around him, his palm flat against David's back, practically holding him in place.

Trace was somewhat surprised by how David's head in his lap made his body take interest, but he dismissed it. He'd always been a really tactile person, and he carried on an active sex life. It was a great outlet for stress, and he enjoyed it. He'd made peace with his touchy-feely tendencies a long time ago.

Bemused, he drew a deep breath, trying to wake up, and yawned largely. A glance at the laptop's clock showed it was early evening. He must have dropped off while working on the report. Slightly annoyed by the beeping, he saved the open document, shut the laptop down, and carefully lifted it to set it on the nightstand but couldn't quite reach it without disturbing the bed. So he set it down next to him instead and turned his attention back to David.

David looked more relaxed, and some of the usual warm color was back in his face. Most of the pained creases were relieved, leaving just the trace of lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth from all his smiling. David's usually rugged features were softened in sleep, and without thinking about it, Trace rubbed David's back gently. He yawned again and thought about going back to sleep; he decided there was no reason not to and let himself doze off again after scooting down a little, dimly thinking about how warm David was against him.