by Ginn Hale
“Uniform looks good on you.” Jack lifted a cold hand to the white linen and gold trim of Finch’s cuff. His fingers left a bloody trail.
“You’re not still bleeding, are you?” All the joy went out of Finch’s expression. He pulled Jack’s coat open, took in the mess of his blood-soaked, tattered shirt, and then tore the rags aside to expose Jack’s cold skin and the bullet wound in his side.
His hands felt blazing hot on Jack’s body.
“It’s all right,” Jack murmured. He didn’t want Finch feeling sad. “First time I think I ever did the right thing for the right reason….”
“You are not going to die,” Finch told him firmly.
“Sorry.” And Jack was, because he hadn’t wanted to hurt Finch. “Not for you to decide though.”
“The hell it isn’t!” Finch ground out as he gripped Jack hard and pulled his limp body into his arms. “If I’m a wizard then I can save you. You said that I could make what I want of it and I want you to live.”
The heat of Finch’s touch grew, spreading through Jack’s chest and pouring out to his arms and legs. From the pool of his shadow the black dog rose up, snarling with all of Finch’s fury and desperation.
“You can’t die, damn it. You can’t.” Finch clenched his eyes shut in concentration.
Jack stared at the black mastiff. She sprang at him and hit him like the breath of a furnace pouring over his icy skin. Heat roared into his lungs and flooded his body.
Jack’s heart lurched from its sluggish rhythm to an alert pace, like a pilot startling awake. His ears hummed and his nerves rang like chimes. All his scrapes and gouges flared to life.
Finch gripped him so hard that his muscular arms trembled. Jack drew in a deep breath against Finch’s chest then lifted his hands and pushed Finch back slightly.
“Down boy. That’s enough.” Jack didn’t need Finch to pour all of his power and life into him. His ribs hurt and every inch of him felt battered, but not in the dull, dying way he had before. This was the familiar ache of living—healing.
Finch relented, though he kept one arm wrapped around Jack. He looked flushed, dazed at having unleashed the full extent of his own power. Jack remembered the feeling as somewhere between an orgasm and a concussion.
Finch stroked Jack’s cheek then slid his hand down his side. Jack winced and alarm dispelled Finch’s languid expression.
“You’re still bleeding.”
“Scratches, nicks. Nothing I can’t survive.” Jack caught Finch’s hand and held it, then drew the palm against his chest to let Finch feel his heart beating, strong and steady. “I’m all right. You saved me.”
“I did?” Finch asked softly then he offered Jack a broad grin. “I did. I am a wizard, like you.”
“Yeah.” Jack returned Finch’s smile. All around them, dandelions growing up from between the cracked blue tiles spread brilliant gold blossoms. Tiny iridescent hummingbirds flitted between the violet trumpets of the flowering morning glories that entwined abandoned chairs and tables. Life went on even after desolation, not always in the same way, but still it could be beautiful, couldn’t it?
“Not a bad day to end a revolution,” Jack murmured. Beside him Finch nodded and gently squeezed Jack’s shoulder.
“Not a bad day at all.”
