Anyway, so they step back onto the boat and Lewis keeps his free hand (the hand not holding a gun) a few inches from Kellerman's back and walks him toward the bed. Kellerman sits on the edge with Lewis' coat still around his shoulders and the muscle memory from the weight of the gun still in his forearm, and Lewis pulls open the nightstand drawer, pulls out the back-up piece, looks at Kellerman.
"How many guns you got, Mikey?"
Kellerman leans over, removes the one taped to the bed frame, surrenders it to the stockpile. Lewis passes a hand over his face, as Kellerman has seen him do countless times. He takes the guns out and puts them on the couch and comes back to --
Kellerman standing, Lewis' suit jacket in his outstretched hand.
"See you in the morning?"
"Yeah, and in twenty minutes when you're looking for your hideout piece, and at midnight when you get up to take a leak. Get some sleep, Mike, I'll make us eggs tomorrow."
"The Lewis special," Kellerman says, already turning, already trying to decide if sleeping in his clothes is too pathetic even by today's standard. Hears what might be a bottle of ketchup roll across the floor and Lewis talking to himself, dropping onto the couch. It's too short for him, has to be, it's too short for Kellerman, even.
Kellerman nudges off his shoes and lays down. His shirt smells faintly like Lewis' cologne.
Lewis considers the question of where to put the guns for a while. He's not Stallone; under the pillow is out. Could leave them on the kitchen counter, but that's where the gun'd been when he got there. Out. Settles for covering them with his trenchcoat on the floor. Thinks about the week he spent on this couch when Frank was in the hospital, watching hockey with Kellerman, being drunk enough to care about hockey.
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again it's after two and he can't move his neck. Kellerman is standing in the kitchen, and when he realizes Lewis is awake, they both look to the tidy pile of guns by Lewis' feet. Lewis sighs, and Kellerman smiles that same strange smile he's been smiling all night.
"Don't worry, officer, I'm unarmed."
Lewis wants to stand up, but not enough to do anything about it, so he stays put. He realizes several minutes have passed since Kellerman spoke, and says wise ass belatedly and absent any real heat. Everything else is cold, anyway --
(the gun hadn't been, when he had taken it from Kellerman's hand; it had been warm, live, the grip damp with sweat)
-- so why not. Kellerman's gone anyway.
The next time he wakes up, his neck still hurts. Kellerman's sitting on the arm of the couch and his feet are on the cushion beside Lewis' leg. Lewis gets the unpleasant startle he always gets when he realizes someone's been watching him without his noticing it, but pats Kellerman's foot for lack of any other plan. Kellerman jumps a little and wakes up, and Lewis laughs for what feels like the first time in days.
"Shit, man, we'll both be in traction in the morning."
"It is morning," Kellerman says, but he's mostly asleep, so Lewis doesn't make a joke. He doesn't really feel like joking, anyway.
"It is," he agrees instead. "'nother day."
"I didn't have a plan for this part," Kellerman says. "I figured --"
"Yeah, well, me neither," Lewis says, and they both think for a minute about what Kellerman had figured. He pats Kellerman's other foot for good measure, and falls asleep again with his hand around Kellerman's ankle, his fingers resting over the bone.