Fake Hand - E.V.A.

They’ve just fucked, twice, and Pete is smiling, sex stupid and sleepy, face buried in a mess of blankets and pillows and sheets and Jim is running his fingers through his hair, and it’s been awhile longer than he thought since Blandus handled Rhonwen, looks like, because there’s over a solid inch of burnt red to work with.

Jim says, since he's been meaning to for a few weeks or so anyway, “We should get a place together.”

Pete turns his head to bite at Jims wrist, whole mouth coming open, teeth clamping down hard like a dog or a wolf or coyote or some shit. It’s... typical Peter Pan. Jim ignores it.

“Big place, nice natural light, like. Windows, wood floors, whatever you want. You can pick.”

The teeth sink in deeper.

Jim was not aware that deeper was possible.

"You can paint the walls."

His wrist hurts like a motherfucker."All of them?" Pete asks, sounding curious, but also sounding kind of fucked out. They went again after the second time, which, wow, Jim is not fucking telling the doctor about that. There's horny, which makes sense all of the time except for the time when your hand is perilously half-connected to the rest of your body, and there is no way to say I was pretty much forced into fucking this guy because he had my hand held hostage do you know how much pain I am in right now because I'm in pain without the cops being called. Jim is not very happy with Pete right now, but he is always very opposed to the cops being called. After the third round, Pete napped, then got out of bed for a shower, then Googled some stuff and then called a few people who he said were not actual doctors but were for sure at least pre-med and then they had both silently sat around the apartment for a half an hour trying to understand how neither of them had a doctor on their payroll and then suddenly Pete had demanded, "Did you know that humans can bite with a hundred and twenty pounds of pressure?" (to which Jim had snarked, "Peter, you don't even weigh a hundred and twenty pounds.") and also "Hyenas can bite harder than, like, everyone. They can bite harder than sharks." and then "Oh shit, though, crocodiles do not fuck around." and then, finally, warily glancing at Jim over the top of his douchebag designer sunglasses (indoors at three in the morning what the actual fuck), "This article says that human bites can pass over infections, and I don't know, I don't feel infectious, but I guess we should take you to USC."

So, whatever, they're waiting to see someone at the ER at USC, because they've been saving USC for their real names for the past like, eight years, on account of the one semester Pete attended on full scholarship when he was seventeen.

Pete has two cell phones out, texting like a lunatic.

If penis envy is anything like hand envy, Jim can now understand everything he's ever read on Freud a hell of a lot more.

Pete is texting with both hands on two phones and also occasionally sipping at a dirty Chai latte and Jim can, like. Can like actually not even feel his right hand. Like, if he could not see it, Jim would not know that it existed.

If Jim were not left-handed, he would be fucking furious right now.

Instead, he is just mildly uncomfortable, nursing a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino from Starbucks because: "They have drive-through windows for a reason, James, and that reason is called right now."

"All of what?" Jim demands furiously just as someone calls out, "James Hook?"

The doctor calls out.

Jim stands and takes a few steps but Pete eyes the guy warily, not rushing to get up or anything, just looking like maybe he's about to ask that they get a girl instead. The guy is like, half Pete's size though, so probably, unless he is like super skilled at krav maga, Jim could take him one-handed, if he had to. Well. Whatever, if there's a fight, he really only has the one hand.

Fucking Peter Pan.

That's going to be on his death certificate.

COD: Fucking Peter Pan.

"Is fucking a verb, here?" Pete's like, still sitting.

Jim hadn't realized he'd said that aloud.

"No, yeah, you totally did."

Still sitting. Totally casual. Jim can't feel his hand. The Frappuccino? Green mushy icy mess less than an inch from Pete's boots. The look on his face says I do realize that that is there but I hope that you realize that cleaning it up is not my job. People are definitely looking at him like he should be cleaning it or at least finding someone else to do it. Don't they get that this is standard operating procedure for Pete?

Pete doesn't even do laundry.

He literally just buys new clothes.

"All what?"

"Mmm? Oh, the walls. I can pick all of them. Right?"

If Jim is about to get fucking amputated because Peter Pan wanted to paint all the walls of his apartment black like some stupid emo goth fag or some shit, Jim is actually going to fuck his shit up. Like, no joke. Jim might actually kill Pete over this, he doesn't know. It probably depends on if he has to do it one-handed.

"We're just going to lie you down, honey," a nurse is saying when Jim passes out.

"Well, it was smart of your boyfriend to get you in here so fast," the doctor informs him cheerfully when Jim wakes up.

Jim thinks that somewhere in the greater LA area, probably outside of a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, or more likely, an Urth or possibly even an Intelligentsia, Pete is cackling like a wild thing.

"Was it."

"You could've lost the whole arm, son."


"I said --"

"No, okay, fuck you, I heard what you fucking said and I want you to know, right now, before you go any further, that you have the shittest bedside manner ever."

Jim has actually been fucking amputated because Peter Pan wanted to paint all the walls red.


Jim now has choices.

His choices are:

a. freak with no hand

b. prosthetic

c. weird metal thing

Pete seems to be voting for weird metal thing; he keeps exclaiming, totally out of nowhere, like, "YOU COULD BE JAMES HOOK WITH AN ACTUAL HOOK THOUGH JIM. AN ACTUAL HOOK!"

Jim thinks maybe Pete is experiencing guilt for the first time and it's freaking him out or something.

He uses his good/only hand to pat Pete on the shoulder consolingly.

He makes it through four whole days of hospital food and a ugly stuffed alligator named Jamie from the fucking Build-A-Bear at Westside Pavilion ("They didn't have hyenas. Or crocodiles. They had a stingray, but only one and this girl looked like she really wanted it and, you fuckin' know I wouldn't usually let that stop me, but I don't know, I thought her dad was going to like punch me in the face, and I hadn't even gotten an Earl Grey latte yet so I was just not feeling it, so... Yeah. I named him Jamie. For you.") and a super contraband blueberry pie from Du-Par's and telenovelas that Pete helpfully translates for him -- because like apparently, of the two of them, Jim is somehow now the one who actually does not speak fluent fucking Portuguese, the fuck even, Jim is a veritable master of romance languages -- before whatever guilt Pete might be going through seems to dissipate because when visiting hours end on day four, he snarls, "I am not coming here again unless it is to pick you up because you are being discharged. Just so you know," as he walks out.

Jim sighs and waits ten minutes to be sure that Pete isn't lurking before he calls for the nurse who calls for the doctor and that takes like three hours because it'

s a teaching hospital and they have more than enough patients to tend to and Jim hasn't been throwing money around or anything so they think he's not a priority.

This is a mistake.

Jim is a fucking priority.


He is so getting his own doctor on call after this shit is over.

It takes like three hours before Jim says, "Just get me a fucking fake hand already."

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