Patrick slid the key into the deadbolt, first turning it clockwise and then moving to the lock on the door handle. He wasn't sure what made him pause. No one had been back to the loft since the break-in as far as he knew. What was he expecting to find? Robin had promised that the only thing that looked out of place was a spent candle on her windowsill, one she had never opened, never burned, sitting on a window that had been shut and locked. If he hadn't been so busy being childish, he could have come in with her; they could have handled it together. He didn't want to think about how terrified she must have been upon entering the apartment and finding even that slight object out of place. The way she had sounded on the phone when she had worked up the nerve to call him, something he knew couldn't have been easy given his trigger temper and her own pride, had torn him up inside. And then to not call her once he got word of Cameron's accident when he himself hadn't known any of the details leading up to his cousin's injuries. She kept insisting that she understood, that he had probably been so caught up in everything else he hadn't remembered that she was waiting for him. He had made the decision and while he didn't think it was the wrong one, he wished he could have been there for both of them.
When he closed his eyes, he could still see her standing in the waiting room, her expression caught between agony and relief. For a woman who strived on hiding her emotions, she often slipped up where Patrick was concerned, leaving her own heart vulnerable. It didn't matter how fast he had gone to her, how he had defended her to his brother; there was still a part of him that hated himself for not taking care of her beforehand. Their first fight, when he had told the family that it was only a matter of time before Robin opened her eyes and saw that he wasn't what she really wanted, had hit far too close to home for his taste. He had to stop letting these petty fights drive a wedge between them; his decision to leave only ever resulted in her doubting her worth to him.
Pushing open the door, he let his eyes take in everything before he even attempted to step inside. The furniture wasn't turned over; the lamp at Robin's desk was on, but she liked to sit in that little corner and read the newspaper when she came home. He knew that much from the handful of times he had actually been over. The balcony was covered completely behind the thick vinyl material of the vertical vanes and the rest of the loft was silent, waiting for its owners to return home. Checking the kitchen first, he found not a dirty dish in the sink or a leak of the faucet. The hall closet provided no hiding spot for the prowler Patrick kept expecting to find. The stair railing was wooden so he couldn't see a massive amount of fingerprints, not that he would have been able to prove that someone had been here in the girls' absence based on that. In order of distance from the stairs, the bedrooms went Courtney's, Morgan's, and Robin's. He inspected each one, careful not to touch anything in case he found something that would be enough to have Mac check out the place. He didn't have to tell Robin everything if it meant insuring her safety.
Morgan's bedroom was oddly clean, but his cousin wasn't like other kids his age. He was as meticulous as Robin when it came to keeping everything clean and put away. His stuffed animals lived in a hammock that hung from the wall above his bed. His Bob the Builder sheets and comforter had been yanked back, but what was odd about a little boy sleeping in his own bed and getting up for school? His little desk was perfectly organized: the left side held his writing instruments including a pen with a troll eraser on the end of it and the right side was where he kept the notebook Robin had given him the day he moved in. He wouldn't have even known about the notebook if not for his girlfriend mentioning it in some random conversation they had had. She wanted her son to express himself and, since in the beginning he hadn't even been speaking, she figured the book would give Morgan a chance to get his thoughts on paper. It was dangerous to bottle up emotions, she had told him as if he didn't already know that. Not finding what he was looking for, he moved on to Robin's bedroom.
Just like her precious bakery, there were little knickknacks spread randomly throughout the room, nothing too obvious. If Patrick hadn't been expecting them, he might have missed them completely. The bed was been made, wicker-basket brown comforter pulled over crisp white sheets. A corner of it was pulled back and Patrick made his way around to the right side of the mattress to inspect this, not sure what he was even looking for. He felt for the drawer and pulled it open, finding Robin's address book and a fine point Bic. Closing it with a resounding thud, he bent down and looked under the bed, his right arm reaching as far as it could since it was hard to see what she actually kept under the frame. His hand came in contact with nothing and he forced himself to his feet.
Something drew him to the bathroom. Like a moth to a flame, he thought, and then had to laugh at himself. The smell hit him first, the smell of molding towels. He picked them up and carried them carefully down the stairs to throw away. They were ruined; what would be the point of trying to wash them now? Had Robin used them right before she realized she wasn't alone in the apartment? Had the guy watched her? The very idea sent tremors up and down Patrick's back.
He returned to the bathroom to finish his investigation. The sink was spotless just as the kitchen's had been and there were two toothbrushes in a cup labeled Nobody Gets in the Way of Me and My Coffee. There weren't any medications behind the mirror that he didn't recognize: Robin's meds, aspirin, Children's Motrin, Flintstones vitamins, etc.
The dirty water stains on the shower door caught his eye and he wrenched it open, glancing down to see the fallen bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a pink three-blade razor, a bar of soap, and a loofah. The only item left on the built-in ceramic shelf was a clear bottle of body wash. The lid had been torn off and thrown into the mess of hair products at the mouth of the drain. Before leaving the kitchen, he had picked out a pair of rubber gloves and a half a dozen plastic bags from under the sink. Using the gloves now, he dropped the bottle into one of the larger bags and zipped it up. It was a long shot, to say the least, but it was all he had.
He left the bathroom, not expecting to find much else, but looked under the bed again wanting to find the box the candle had been taken from, some clue of fowl play besides the body wash bottle; that was going to be a hard sell as it was. If I was a thief/pervert, where would I stash my goodies to let her know I was here? Patrick mused quietly. He checked the closet, half expecting to find her clothes slashed or something worse, but they hadn't been touched. Robin had borrowed a few pairs of scrubs from the hospital during Cameron's stay so that she wouldn't have to come back here any time soon. He pulled out each drawer of her dresser rifling through the underwear drawer and finding not even the slightest bit of pleasure in the act because of what he was looking for, what he was dreading he'd find. Sure enough, a pair of pink laced panties was wadded up in a ball and it didn't take a genius to figure out why they stayed in that position even when he picked them up with the Bic from Robin's nightstand drawer. Turning his face away from the vile stench, he dropped the underwear in another little baggie, knowing that the semen could provide the police with a positive ID match.
Patrick left her bedroom with the baggies in one hand and his car keys in the other. He dropped the rubber gloves in the trash, reminding himself to replace them. He put in a call to the PCPD before he even left the loft wanting to be sure they got their search over and done with before Robin came home from work. He wanted to clean the place from top to bottom, but he couldn't risk destroying any evidence he may not have been able to find. The officer explained that there was no way to know how long such a search would take, but that he'd do his best. Patrick thanked the officer and locked up, promising to bring by the key Bobbie had loaned him so that they wouldn't have to pick the lock or break down the door.
He decided then and there not to tell Robin what he had found. If that meant he had to take her and Morgan out for a few hours while the police did their investigation, he would do it. She wasn't stepping foot in this place until they were in the clear. The fear would stay with her and she would probe him for questions, but he wouldn't give into them; it was best to let her think she was safe and protect her than let her know that someone had possibly targeted her. He would take care of her from here on out. It was one thing he wouldn't screw up.
Drumming his fingers alongside the computer's keyboard, Dillon glanced at the clock that was placed on their shared dresser. Thirty minutes since his broodier half had left the hospital with a muttered, "I'll see you later," and twenty five minutes after Bobbie went in search of him. This length of time either meant they were talking or Lucas had fled the scene and would be an unbearable silent grump for at least the next week.
In the past seven years they had been together, Dillon had come to know Lucas' moods well. Where Dillon tended to respond to any emotional situation with yelling, wild arm waving, and rapid fire speech, Lucas retreated into himself, became almost mute. It was a tribute to the differences in their families. With the Spencers, silence was uncomfortable. There wasn't one of them who handled silence well and they would all endeavor to end it. With the Quartermaines, silence meant being ignored in favor for yet another discussion on whose house it really was. Lucas had been fine, well as fine as one could be while waiting in the hospital, until Patrick had broken the good news. In fact, Dillon could pinpoint the exact moment Lucas went silent. When he spied his mother and Cruz hugging each other in relief.
Despite Lucas' promise that he would talk to his mother, Dillon knew he hadn't done it. For one thing when Bobbie and Lucas were talking, the phone rang constantly and there was no stopping the "just in the neighborhood" visits from his mother-in-law. And if Lucas had talked with Bobbie, then there would have been at least a conversation in the hospital. But every time he had tried to push Lucas towards his mother, Lucas would run off or find some other errand to run to keep him away. At least that was the most logical explanation as to why Lucas willing volunteered to chauffer Tony Grimes around.
Dillon had to admit his curiosity had been in overdrive once he realized Cruz and Bobbie were both at the hospital. Although why he had initially thought either one of them would be absent seemed ridiculous at best. So whenever he could, he had watched them out of the corner of his eye. The little touches that passed between them, the way Cruz would watch Bobbie enter and leave a room, their habit of looking for each other immediately when they came into the room; Dillon doubted they were aware they did any of it. It was a little difficult to get his mind around but it was obvious to him they cared about each other deeply and his mother-in-law was the happiest he had seen her since Tony's death. Then again he had always been a fan of Demi and Ashton so he could be biased, Dillon mused.
Lucas wondered if anyone would believe that his inspiration to start cooking, not just relying on restaurant food as he and his family had done for the last few years, had come from Patrick. His cousin hadn't been the best at a lot of things, but the dishes he specialized in--breakfast combinations, lasagna, etc--were incredible. It was no wonder he and Robin got along with their mutual love of food. Stirring the onions from one side of the skillet to the other, he waited for their wonderful smell to drag his husband from his hiding spot. Dillon was always telling him that he wondered why Lucas went to work at all when he could spend the day cooking for him. God, he loved that man.
Lucas was certain that his sudden need to cook something, anything, again was the result of the talk he had had with his mother earlier. He had gotten to say a lot of the things that he'd thought he would have to hide forever and it felt good, amazing, to get them off of his chest. This in no way meant that he didn't find it hard to swallow what was going on between his mother and a guy half her age, a guy he had known most of his life, or that he didn't take offense to how he had been clued into their secret relationship. He just chose to put it behind him for now and make his famous spaghetti and meat sauce with side salad and garlic bread. Oh yeah; he gave his husband thirty seconds before he was crowding the small space the kitchen provided, chomping at his heels about when it would all be ready.
"Someone's in a good mood." Dillon remarked leaning in the doorway.
"Why shouldn't I be? It's a beautiful day outside." Lucas knew Dillon would pick up on the light, cheery tone of his voice and assume that his husband had gone insane. Lucas was a lot of things, but optimistic was not one of them. He was a serious man, had been that even as a little boy, and often kept his emotions in check slipping up only when he heard the crazy situations his family members landed themselves in.
"Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?"
"That hurts kind of." Lucas teased stirring in a small can of tomato sauce.
"It's kind of true." Dillon made his way over towards the stove, determined to sneak a taste before Lucas would be aware of it. "My husband doesn't talk about how beautiful the weather is outside. He grumbles and runs away from everyone."
"Keep those fingers where I can see them." Lucas warned not disillusioned to what Dillon had in mind. He was the same way with birthday cakes, wanting to sneak a bit of frosting before the poor kid could even get a bite of it. "I went to see my sister. I went to see BJ."
"Got it. Did she help?" They really were a perfect match, Dillon mused. He had to be the only person in the world who didn't find that sentence the least bit odd. He attributed it to growing up with Edward. Or his mother.
"She led me to my mother...or rather, her to me." Lucas explained, stopping to peck Dillon's left cheek before sprinkling a little garlic on each slice of bread before sticking the pan in the oven and turning the dial.
Dillon managed to stick his finger into the sauce pan quickly as Lucas placed the garlic bread in the oven, sneaking a taste before he straightened himself out. As usual it was perfection. "Well that explains it: you must have talked to her finally."
"I did. It was okay." Lucas answered honestly. He wouldn't go as far as to say it had been relaxing, but it had been a major relief that he could pour his heart out to her without her judging him. Too many people in his past had done that and now they were gone.
"Whatever it takes to get the Lucas Special Pasta dinner is all good with me. I won't even say I told you so."
"You tasted it, didn't you? You put your disgusting finger in my sauce!" Lucas accused his face reddening in exasperation.
"You know I think I left the computer running. I better go check on that. Don't want to waste energy you know. Green is the hottest trend right now." Dillon eased his back towards the steps to their bedroom.
"Dillon Albert Quartermaine Hornsby-Jones, you stop right there or you won't get a bite of this food." Lucas threatened in a low voice.
"You would never starve me."
"Not only will I starve you, I'll withhold sex until further notice." Lucas nodded evilly.
"You wouldn't." Dillon froze. Lucas couldn't be that cruel could he? Wasn't today a celebration?
"I would. And I'll cancel the Internet and all of your entertainment magazines." Lucas went on knowing it was all bullshit. He'd never make it without sex. He could last maybe...yeah ten minutes.
"But if we aren't having sex, then we will need something to amuse ourselves with." Dillon cocked his eyebrow. "You know besides talking with each other."
"I hate when you do that. Go. Sit with your computer. I'll finish dinner and I might give you the leftovers." Lucas waved his hand dismissing his husband altogether, laughing on the inside even though his face didn't give him away.
"I love your leftovers." Dillon took the steps two at a time and sat down at the computer, determined not to get sucked into the vacuous time warp that was his normal Internet routine. Opening his list of favorites, out of habit he went to call up the mail account for his business, ignored since they received word of Cameron's accident. Now that Cameron was out of the woods for the moment, Dillon had bills to pay and money to earn.
He hissed through his teeth as he realized he accidentally clicked on the link to his favorite gossip blog. Muttering under his breath, Dillon was about to drop the list down again to pick the correct page when a familiar name caught his eye.
"Oh shit." He whispered as he scrolled down the page. "Shit. Shit. Shit." With each passing word, his voice rose in volume, to the point he was positive Lucas would coming up the stairs to see what the problem was.
As if on cue, Lucas bounded into the room, wiping his hands with the towel he always tied to his waist when he cooking. "What? What's going on?"
Dillon pointed to the screen. "Houston, your family has a problem."