He was clinging to a lifeline, and that lifeline was line of sight with John. John looked directly into those complicated, expressive blue eyes, not wanting to see pain and fear in them but not about to deny Nick was he was looking for.
He didn’t see pain or fear. He saw trust, and love, and confidence. Nick knew it was going to be okay. He knew he was safe. And it was John holding all that together.
“I’ve got you,” said John.
Nick smiled. “I know.”
He sagged, and his head wobbled, not quite unconscious but not really conscious either. He was checking out. But if he wasn’t scared, John had no problem with that.
He started stroking the side of Nick’s face and head, running his fingers over the soft lines of skin and hair, letting him feel warmth and a gentle touch. Nick made a heartbreaking mewling sound when John’s hand brushed one of his closed eyes, but he also relaxed deeply, going completely limp in John’s lap.
“You’re okay,” said John. “You’re safe, everything’s going to be fine. You’ll be fine, you’re coming out of here with me, in my car. We’ll take you home, or to my place, whatever works out. And after you’ve had a long time to sleep, and some good wine, you’ll be back at work in the FBI building with me and Wash and Kelly, and I’ll bet even Curry is gonna be way too nice to you for a while.”
He kept talking. His friend was semiconscious, relaxed in the world of soft words and gentle touches John was creating for him. He wasn’t in distress, and that meant a hell of a lot given the circumstances.
But John couldn’t help feeling a little sick when the cell door opened.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Best Revenge
JOHN
The few seconds of not knowing who was outside, or if he was going to have to throw himself between Nick and an attacker, were some of the most tense of John’s career.
But it was Special Agent In Charge Daniel Curry at the door, looking grim as hell, and agent Derrick “Wash” Washington, and Agent Kelly Corsich, all looking like murder would be very easy for them at that moment.
They had a couple high-ranking and pale corrections officers with them, and a paramedic from NYFD, and a guy with a US Marshals badge on his belt. They were backed up by crime scene guys, and a set of agents from outside Art Crimes & Forgery. John let out his breath slowly in relief.
“The cavalry’s here, Nick,” John said quietly. He wasn’t sure how much Nick was aware of, but it was likely he was clinging to enough shreds of consciousness to know the door had opened. And if it’d made John feel sick....
Unless he was mistaken, Nick relaxed a little more.
The cavalry started shooting photos of the cell. A crime scene. Blood. Nick’s blood. John realized that blood stained his own shirt, and pants, and hands.
After his initial evaluation, he’d tuned out the injuries and just focused on Nick the person. He looked so awful, and his body had been so badly abused, that John couldn’t imagine reflecting that picture back at him. He’d made himself simply look into Nick’s eyes and see his undamaged soul, not the wounds.
“Go ahead and lie him flat on the floor,” instructed the paramedic, taking one of Nick’s hands and clipping on an 02 monitor to his finger.
Nick’s hand was limp, but his body tensed at that. “No,” said John, keeping his voice soft. “He’s semiconscious. He’s in shock. He’ll feel it if I do that.”
The paramedic gave him a frustrated look, and snapped a vial of ammonia and held it under Nick’s nose. Modern-day smelling salts.
“Get that away from him,” snapped John as Nick’s body convulsed in an attempt to escape and his eyes flew open, scared. “Jesus. What part of compassion don’t you understand?”
“My job isn’t to be compassionate, it’s to make sure he’s not dying and save his life if he is. I need you to leave the scene, please.”
John was saved from the need to react by Wash grabbing the paramedic’s shoulder in an iron grip. “No, you need to leave the scene. Leave your bag. I know this guy and I was trained as a medic in the military.”
The paramedic didn’t quibble, leaving the cell quickly. Wash sat on the floor next to Nick, who was regaining alertness fast. “Hey, buddy. Mind if I take your blood pressure?”
Nick shook his head, and Wash checked his blood pressure, listened to his chest, checked his O2 saturation, and his temperature. His pupils dilated normally and he passed any number of small tests John soon lost track of.
Wash’ friendly, matter-of-fact examination set Nick at ease. “Well, you’re a bloody mess,” said Wash cheerfully. “Your blood pressure’s low enough I want you checked out for internal bleeding, and with the head trauma you’re going to want some careful monitoring. But you seem perfectly well anchored in the land of the living.”
“I coulda told you that,” muttered Nick.
“We normal people like empirical evidence that our friends aren’t dying,” retorted Wash.
“I’d like empirical evidence that I can get the hell out of here,” said Nick.
Wash smiled and waved at the paramedic. “Bring that gurney in here.”
Nick’s face twisted. “No, I don’t think so. I’m walking out of here on my own two feet with my head high.”
John stared at him. “I appreciate the desire to do that. But get real. You can’t even stand.”
“I can,” said Nick with pure steel in his eyes. “It’s just pain.”
John looked up at Curry, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “Gary here with the Marshals office wants to put a new anklet on Aster. Then he’s free to go wherever you want to take him. I’ll take care of business here.”
There was a certain primal aggression in Daniel’s voice when he said “I’ll take care of business,” that made John gloat just a little. Curry didn’t anger easily, and displayed emotion even less readily. But he backed good people, and while Daniel would never admit it, Nick had been put on that list.
Wash got out of the way, and it was the Marshal’s turn to sit down beside Nick. He was pale, and trying to remain professional and not stare. “I’m Gary Wills with the US Marshal’s office. I’ve just gotta fit you with a new anklet.”
“Make sure this one works, would you?” asked Nick with a spark of humor in his expression.
Wills swallowed hard like he was nauseated, and tried to smile. John was glad this wasn’t one of the brash, beefy, brawler types. He was short, and had kind eyes, and a pleasant expression.
“You don’t want the special Monopoly edition ‘go directly to jail’ version?” asked John.
“I prefer a mansion.”
“You already live in one,” protested John.
The Marshal smiled, confused but liking the good nature. “Do you have any injuries I need to be aware of putting this on?”
Nick shook his head.
“Which ankle do you prefer?”
“Left,” croaked Nick.
“Okay, I’ll have you out of here in just a minute.”
Wills stopped short when he pulled Nick’s pant leg up. “Uh - the blood all over your ankle? Kinda the sort of thing I had in mind when I asked you about injuries, Aster.”
“I don’t care,” said Nick. “Just put it on and get me out of here.”
“Hey.” The Marshal scooted back up to Nick’s side, grimacing when his palm slipped in a pool of blood. “I care. Please don’t confuse me with the people who did this to you. I’m not slapping this on over raw wounds.”
“You gonna let me out of here without it?” asked Nick.
“Well....”
“Just put it on me,” said Nick, sounding pissed. He relented a moment later, realizing the concern in the Marshal’s expression was genuine. His face softened, as did his voice. “It’s not like I’m going hiking in the thing. You won’t hurt me. I just want to be able to go home. Please.”
Wills sighed and glanced at John for guidance.
“Nick’s tough,” said John. “If he wants you to put it
on, put it on. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt him.”
Wills grimaced at the idea, then his eyes fell on the paramedic’s bag. He pulled it over, put on gloves, and used nonstick pads and part of an ace bandage to wrap and pad the cuts with great care. Then gently flexed Nick’s ankle and fastened the tracker.
“How’s that?” the Marshal asked with a sober expression.
“Comfy,” said Nick. “Thanks.”
Wills snorted. “Hey, you asked me to do it.”
“I wasn’t being snarky,” said Nick. “The pressure bandage feels nice.”
Wills gave him an almost shy sideways smile. “Well then....” He fished out more supplies and wrapped Nick’s other ankle the same as the first.
It usually annoyed John, how people started pampering and accommodating Aster the minute they laid eyes on him, for no good reason whatsoever. But right now, he had enormous appreciation for this Marshal being kind to Nick.
“Thank you.” Nick and John said it in off-key unison, and that made all three of them smile.
Wills patted Nick on the hand. “You gonna be safe?”
“Long as John’s got me,” said Nick.
Wills gave him a sad little smile. “Take care, then. Call me if there’s any problems with the anklet."
Wills left, someone else hovered at the door, and Nick stopped breathing. Every muscle in his body went tense. It was an ordinary enough looking guy, the sort you might find behind a checkstand or delivering mail. But he looked pissed, and wore a corrections uniform. He was the man who’d ordered John into the cell.
“Are you the agent in charge here?”
John’s eyes narrowed. “No. Because I’m what you might call emotionally involved,” said John, letting his true rage out for the first time.
“You don’t want me investigating you,” snarled John. “I’m filing charges for false imprisonment of an FBI agent, for threatening to file false criminal charges against me, and confining me against my will in this illegal, bio-hazardous hellhole. You treated my partner with unconscionable brutality, and while he was suffering from possibly life-threatening injuries, you locked him up. Alone and unmonitored in what looks like a medieval closet with nothing but a drain for his own blood. No first aid or pain management, in improperly applied, horribly painful restraints over raw wounds."
John drew a deep breath. "This was after your reckless endangerment put a nonviolent offender into a situation where he was vulnerable to violent criminals. And that’s only criminal charges. Wanna hear what we’re going to be suing for? Or what we’ll be charging after we review CCTV footage?”
The guy’s face flushed red, and his fists clenched. “I just came here to say I have a real problem with your type. Real glad you have the luxury of feeling sorry for these inmates and worrying about if they’re comfy enough. I didn’t get into this job to be an asshole or to hurt people. But your kind comes in here after a bunch of violent criminals decide to get into a fight. Because we have a duty to keep these inmates from killing each other, we intervened-"
"Oh, you call brutality intervention now?" asked John, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
The guard looked like the only thing stopping him from kicking John in the face was the presence of about ten other FBI agents.
"Three of us just went to the hospital and a bunch more are limping around without treatment because the job goes on. It chaps my ass you’re coming in and crying over the piece of shit that caused this. Way to make a guy who just risked his life to maintain order feel like his pain’s nothing stacked up against that of the violent criminals who inflicted it.”
Nick pulled away from John’s arms and sat. “I’ve been to prison. I had some wonderful COs, I saw what they go through, and I’d have put my own life on the line to protect them. But I did nothing to provoke that fight, I did nothing to you, and you put me in agony while I was injured and helpless. That’s what the very worst of violent criminals do.”
“He’s not even charged with a crime,” said John, keeping his expression cool to hide the fact that even saying it broke his heart.
One of the FBI agents John didn’t know stepped forward with disgust in his eyes. “I’m incredibly sensitive to the pain you’re in. My former partner’s permanently disabled from a fight with a suspect. But I just learned you dumped this man in a yard with violent criminals while wearing restraints. I’d like to know exactly how anything that ensued can be blamed on a man chained up hand and foot, who was already on the ground before your men even entered the yard.”
John rested a steadying hand on Nick’s back, out of sight. Then he asked almost under his breath, “This one of the men who dragged you?”
Nick bit his lower lip, closed his eyes, and nodded.
Curry intervened. “Langley, you say this man locked you in a cell against your will and threatened you with false charges?”
“Yes.”
“Kelly, place this so-called officer under arrest.”
“With pleasure.” Kelly cuffed him, then paused for a second with her hand on his back. “You’re going to be taken to a Federal detention center, where you’ll be treated humanely and with respect for your civil rights.”
John raised his eyebrows in respect. The way Kelly had said that was a more lethally effective rebuke than any variety of “fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
Nick gasped when John and Wash helped him to his feet. He gritted his teeth. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Shit this hurts.”
“You don’t have to do this,” said John.
“Like hell I don’t,” said Nick. “I’ll walk outta here if it kills me. Best revenge I can get right now is walking out of here with my head high.”
Nick couldn’t even support most of his own weight at first, and hung heavily between John and Wash. But with determination and a couple of high-pitched moans, he got his legs to hold him.
Nick didn't want to be supported, but he walked out tucked close to John's side, with his left hand on John's back to steady himself. He had to grab John's shirt a couple of times when he wobbled, but he made it out of the jail and into the transport bus that carried them back to the main intake building.
Nick entered the intake area with an easy stroll and a smile that made the injuries look like stage makeup, because nobody beaten or in pain could walk like that. Nobody except Nick. He spotted an officer near the exit door and glanced at John.
"Excuse me for just one moment," said Nick, his voice coming out in a furious growl. John followed him at a cautious distance in case one of them attacked the other.
Nick smiled his most brilliantly charming smile, and plucked the guard's hat off. He flipped it in his hand, stuck it on his head, batted his eyes at the guy, and very deliberately flipped him off before strolling away.
And that, John realized, was the scariest he’d ever seen Nick. Dressed in red scrubs darkened with blood, open wounds around his wrists, his arms and bruised face stained crimson. And smiling with a jaunty bounce in his gait. There was a menace to this simple act that showed him how a completely nonviolent guy could hold his own against violent criminals. Nick was a force to be reckoned with.
And that made it even more of an honor that this indefatigable and supremely capable man would let himself be vulnerable with John, to pass out in his arms and let himself be comforted.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bleeding Out
JOHN
Nick stopped after he opened the door and leaned against the car.
“What’s wrong?” asked John.
“Uh - you got a towel or a plastic bag or something? I’m a bit of a mess, and....the car seat....”
John stared at him for a second. Trust Nick to have been brutally attacked in jail, and be concerned about getting the car bloody. He was about to order Nick to get in when he stopped. Nick was fastidious enough to feel completely miserable if he thought he was trashing John’s car.
John popped the trunk and pulled out one of the ubiquitous nylon FBI “raid jacke
t” windbreakers. He helped Nick put it on, then set the largest plastic evidence bag he could find down on the seat. He supported the now very wobbly Nick into the car, then leaned down to his eye level and squeezed his shoulder.
“I don’t care about the car, Nick.”
I just care about you.
Nick gave him an embarrassed little smile. John straightened and closed the door.
“Where we going?” asked Nick once they were well away from the jail.
“To your doctor on the outside.”
Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story Page 4
