Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1948

Ages: 31 and 22

Of course it had taken until Dean was in bed, stripped to his boxers, favorite comic book already opened to the right page, for him to realize his glasses are in Jerry's room. How did he even leave them anywhere other than their usual hiding place beneath his socks? Dean exhales loudly in frustration. Whatever the reason, he's been looking forward to reading this issue of Tom Mix all day, and he needs his glasses.

After procrastinating for five more minutes, Dean finally flings off his covers and sits up, flinching at the cool gust of air that sends goosebumps slithering up his arms and legs. He crosses the bedroom in a few long strides and opens the door to the hallway, where Jerry's door is about a foot from his. Using the spare key, Dean slowly, quietly eases Jerry's door open, careful not to open it enough to catch Jerry's bed with the light filtering in from the hallway. Once the door is closed, engulfing the room once again in darkness, Dean takes careful steps forward, having snuck into a room undetected more than once in his day.

He can tell he's almost to the dresser where he's sure he left his glasses when one of the legs of the bed catches his toe, and he can't help the hiss of pain that leaves his lips. Almost immediately after, Dean hears a rustle coming from the bed and an eerily recognizable metallic click that Dean desperately hopes is not what he thinks it is.

"Don't move, whoever you are. I've got a gun." Jerry's voice comes out all squeaky at first, but then his normal voice leaks through, trembling as it does. Holy crap. The Kid's got a gun. Since when did the Kid get a gun?

Somehow Dean manages to choke out, "Woah, Jer! It's just me!" But there's no sign of movement, so Dean moves forward, fumbling until he finds the switch on the lamp. Light floods the room, illuminating a wide-eyed, trembling Jerry with pistol at his side. "Put the gun down so you don't shoot yourself in the foot." Dean says softly, gently prying the gun from Jerry's fingers. His heart doesn't slow until he's sure the gun is pointing away from any part of him.

"I'm sorry, Paul." Jerry abruptly breaks from his trance and hurriedly climbs over the bed to stand a foot or so away from Dean with his back facing him. Still in disbelief, Dean looks at the gun in his hand. It's obviously an expensive pistol, not at all like the cheap ones he was used to seeing growing up. He takes out the magazine and shakes his head. So the gun really was loaded. That could have gone very, very badly. Dean quickly empties the bullets into the first drawer of the nightstand and places the parts of the gun in there beside them.

The barely audible chattering of teeth averts Dean's attention back to Jerry, and he sympathetically reaches out to put his hand on Jerry's bony shoulder. Jerry immediately flinches away and goes into the bathroom, not once facing him. Dean hears water running in the sink, but can only see a line of white light from the cracked door.

Running a hand through his hair, Dean struggles with whether or not he should try to talk to him, or leave him alone. Well, he knows the Kid doesn't do well alone when he's upset. Besides, as much as he wants him to cool off, he's dying to know why he has a gun—he's probably been keeping it under his pillow, too.

With an audible sigh, Dean heads over to the bathroom and slowly pushes the door open all the way. Jerry is leaning over the sink, water dripping from his hair and the tip of his nose, having just splashed his face with water. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Dean says, "Sorry if I scared you, Jer. I was just trying to get my gla—something, and I didn't wanna wake you." Jerry swallows and glances up at Dean for a second, but says nothing, and quickly returns his hardened gaze to the water slowly draining at the bottom of the sink.

What's this? For as long as they've known each other, the Kid has always been an unstoppable spew of words, only shutting up if Dean buys him a malted or threatens to cave his face in with his fist. But now . . . nothing? "Jerry, you almost gave me a new nose." He jokes, expecting to get a laugh, or at least a comeback, but Jerry's white-knuckle grip on the sides of the sink just tightens.

Dean's heart sinks, and he says again, a little more forcefully, "I really am sorry, Jer. I didn't mean to scare ya." Finally, after another long moment of silence, Jerry unexpectedly chuckles and says, "You're apologizing to me? I'm the one who drew a damn gun at you!"

Dean grins, relieved, but notices the slight trembling in Jerry's hands as they clutch the sink, and says seriously, "Are you sure you're fine?"

"Yeah, just a little freaked, that's all. It's my own fault, though."

"You know we've got security."

"I know."

"So, what are you doing with it under your pillow?"

"Nothin'. I've gotta right. It's not hurting nobody."

"Except me. You almost shot me, Jer. That can't be safe." Jerry lowers his gaze guitily and shrugs.

"Sorry." Sorry? Why does the Kid keep apologizing? Dean's more worried about him than himself at this point. Jerry's paranoia has gone up just about a hundred notches, and that can't be good for anybody.

"Listen, Jer. No one even knows we're here, and besides, the clerk's not gonna just let anybody up to our rooms. If it makes you feel better, we can have more police stationed somewhere outside. Just . . . don't sleep with a gun."

"Why?"

"It'll make me feel better knowing you won't shoot me, and you won't accidentally shoot yourself!"

"Okay. When we're on the road together, I'll try not to sleep with it. Satisfied?" Jerry looks up at Dean with mock annoyance. Dean shakes his head with a hint of a grin before placing his hand on Jerry's shoulder and saying softly—almost bashfully, "And Jer, you know I'll always . . . well I'll always take care of anyone tryna hurt you."

A playful glint passes through Jerry's eyes, and before Dean can say another word, Jerry has leaned forward and kissed Dean on the cheek.

###

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1948

Ages: 31 and 22

The atmosphere surrounding Dean and Jerry in the room is exciting and overwhelming—so many lights, so many people, so many shouts—it's intoxicating. As Dean's gaze sweeps the crowd, not really looking, but in his own head because that's the only way he can focus on the song, one pair of eyes drowns out everything. It's like someone suddenly turns down the volume on a radio, and Dean stares at the girl unblinkingly for what seems like minutes, but is only seconds.

Dean can hardly wait to finish the song; he wants to hop off the stage right then and there and find her. He doesn't have to wait very long, though, and wades through the crowd to head over to her ringside table. Jerry watches him disappear amongst the audience in amusement. Little does he know what an impact this girl would make in his partner's life. He didn't think a broad could.

"I know your type." Jeanne says as they walk along the shoreline, wind billowing her dress behind her like scarlet smoke. Dean glances sideways at her, but she's smiling ahead, blue eyes sparkling knowingly.

"What's that?"

"You know exactly what to say, and you say it to every girl who catches your eye."

"Can you blame me?"

"No," Jeanne finally says, a pensive expression on her practically perfect face. "Why do you act this way? I mean, you act like you don't care about anyone, and you go out with all of these girls. Why?" With pursed lips, Dean begins shedding his suit, and slips off his shoes before holding out a hand to Jeanne with a playful grin.

"Would you care for a midnight swim?" For a moment Jeanne looks like she's going to be upset at Dean, but then her expression shifts and her hand disappears in his.