Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story

by Ariadne Beckett

  “I need you to define ‘done’ to me, Nick,” said John. He instantly regretted the hardness in his tone. His own hurt at Nick's anger was threatening to become anger itself, and this situation couldn't handle that.

  “Go fuck yourself, is how I define it.”

  John turned his back to Nick and closed his eyes, sick on so many levels he couldn’t count them.

  Think.

  Nick was completely helpless. He was in severe pain. He felt abandoned and betrayed. He’d been terrified and humiliated. He was facing captivity while at his most vulnerable.

  These were the snarls of a wild animal in a trap. Nick didn’t do helpless. He didn’t lose control of his temper or his actions. He was in a trap, and he was in agony.

  This wasn’t the time to justify himself or give Nick lectures on the wisdom of provoking corrupt and dangerous officials, or tell him the alternatives were worse. He had to do everything in his power to ease Nick’s pain and his fear, and try somehow to give him his dignity and sense of self-control back.

  “Nick. Nick.” John kept his voice gentle and knelt by the side of the chair just out of spitting range.

  “Nick, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you went through this nightmare. I know my decision sent you into this, and I’m not sure I could ever forgive someone, let alone a friend, ordering me into emotional and physical agony. Warden Welch warned me this could get ugly, and I did it anyway.”

  Nick glared at him, chin sagging to his chest. His rant had exhausted all of his energy.

  “The other options were let you get murdered by the NYPD, or send you into protective custody to get chained up and loaded onto a plane by complete strangers, flown to God knows where, and isolated from everyone you know by people who don’t even know your name. So I gave an order that I knew would put my best friend through unimaginable pain and fear. That’s the honest and horrible truth and I expect you to hate me for it, and hate being subject to that kind of decision about your life.”

  John drew a deep breath. His rant was getting as long as Nick’s. “I will understand if you don’t forgive me, but no amount of anger is going to chase me away. I’m going to be at your side through this no matter what, and Daniel can fire my emotionally compromised ass if he sees fit.”

  Nick was fighting tears in an instant. “John-”

  “Look - I’m not always as sensitive as I should be. It’s one of my faults. Please, forgive me. Your friendship means everything to me. When Agent Kasdan called me, I abandoned the case, hailed a taxi to the airport without a scrap of luggage, and hounded every airline counter until they gave me a flight. Please at least give me a chance-”

  “How could you do it?” asked Nick, his voice thick. “How could you --”

  “Nick....” John ventured a few steps closer. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I’m doing my best. I treasure you, and our partnership, and your trust.”

  “You weren’t getting rid of me?” Nick looked like he barely dared hope.

  John teared up at that. “Getting rid of you?”

  Oh, God, poor Nick.

  Oh, God.

  John gulped, and sucked air into his lungs, and blinked, and clenched his fists and tried frantically not to cry. He could see Nick in Rikers beaten beyond recognition and keep it together. He could see Nick barely clinging to consciousness strapped down in that horrific chair and keep it together.

  He couldn’t take the heartbreak and abandonment and objectification and helplessness and lack of self-esteem in that question.

  Not from confident, inventive, proud, playful, tough, human Nick Aster. Not from a beautiful, fiercely loyal man who had the skills, confidence, and intelligence to play a top stockbroker one day, a master forger the next, and infiltrate an art robbery ring after dinner. Then come to work every morning at the FBI office wearing a tracking anklet and sort case files at John’s command with a subversive twinkle in his eyes.

  “What do you think you are to me, a misbehaving dog? A toy?” asked John.

  “I don’t know.” Nick’s voice was broken.

  John remembered Nick's words at the hospital. I love you, John. I don’t think you know that.

  “I love you, Nick. I don’t abandon people I love, not ever. You’re my best friend. You and Mari are my family,” said John. “It’s a weird family, but it’s not half as dysfunctional as most, and a lot more fun.”

  John’s gut tightened. Family. Best friend. Partner. Nice words. But they diluted what he wished he’d had the guts to admit.

  I’ve fallen in love with you. I’m married to a woman who is and will forever remain the love of my life. But sometime between arresting you and today, I fell in love with a felon in my custody named Nick Aster too.

  “Still? Even after last week?”

  John stared at him. “Nick, I’ve never cared about you more. I love the person you are when you aren’t performing. It breaks me that you think that’d leave me thinking less of you. Soft, vulnerable Nick Aster is one of my favorite things in the world.”

  Tears entered Nick’s eyes, and he closed them tight. “John, help,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A Dubious Trophy

  JOHN

  John knelt beside his friend, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Hey. It’s all gonna be okay.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Nick, sounding weak and utterly miserable.

  “Don’t apologize. Everyone understands.”

  Nick squeezed his eyes shut. “Should’ve beat the hell out of me. Being -- really nice. I want them to know -- I’m sorry, I’m trying, I really -- appreciate --”

  “Shhhhh,” said John, patting his shoulder. “They know. Let’s get you out of this contraption.”

  He fished for the first buckle he could find, pushing the blanket aside and shivering at the sweat of pain on Nick’s skin and how helpless he was.

  Nick let out a high moan. “No.”

  John stopped. “What.”

  “I don’t think -- I can’t handle moving right now. It hurts -- please.”

  John froze. “What the -- why? They injure you?”

  “Said -- can’t have my meds until I clear intake an talk to the doctor. I’m -- I want someone to knock me out. Just want -- you to beat my head in.”

  John straightened. “Get the HELL IN HERE,” he bellowed at the guard outside the unlocked cell door.

  They were afraid of how John would react to Aster’s treatment, well he was going to use the hell out of that. Larson and another guard, a little white guy, poked their heads in like nervous teenagers.

  “You give him his fucking meds, right the FUCK now! I don’t give one minuscule little fuck about your procedures, and I’m about thirty seconds from calling in the strike team of your nightmares to investigate the fucking TORTURE of an FBI asset.”

  “He can have them as soon as --” tried the second guard bravely.

  “Fuck you!” John yelled, his fists sneaking up to a fighting stance, a near-homicidal rage brewing. “Shut up and obey me, now.”

  I will single-handedly take out every last one of you.

  Both heads vanished. In a remarkably short space of time, they returned, entering with heads averted and skirting the walls as though avoiding an attack dog.

  The little white guy held out the neatly-labeled pack of medications Gary Wills had put together in case this happened, and a cup of water. “We weren’t withholding these to hurt him --”

  “Get the fuck out,” snapped John. The kid startled back about a foot, and with a twinge of guilt John realized the guy had a pleasant look about him and was probably sincere.

  John flipped through and found the pain meds and muscle relaxants first. He had to hold out the pills one at a time, and carefully tilt out the right amount of water without choking him, and he wanted to kill every single person who had reduced Nick to this.

  The anti-inflammatories were overdue too, and he gave Nick those next.

  “You shouldn’t have yelled,” w
hispered Nick. “They didn’t know.”

  “What do you mean they didn’t know?”

  “I asked for my pills once, they said I had to go through intake and see the doctor first. I’ve been trying to keep from acting like I was in pain, or drug-seeking, because once they decide you’re whining or an addict, you can pretty much forget it. I just needed to get through it.”

  “Damn, I hate this place,” muttered John.

  Nick managed a smile. “Gee, you’re the only one who feels that way.”

  He was eyeing the rest of the water with longing, and John helped him drink.

  Looking for a place to set the empty cup, John realized Larson was still just inside the door, and that his mouth was turned down at the corners, his brow furrowed, and his eyes were suspiciously moist. He was standing quietly to the side, head slightly lowered and turned aside in deference to John.

  He caught John’s gaze and reluctantly met his eyes. “I didn’t know.” His voice was thick and sincere. “I like this kid. It breaks my heart what they did to him.”

  Larson was looking anxiously past John at Nick. John realized he trusted this guy, and stepped aside.

  The corrections officer knelt to Nick’s eye level. “Aster, I was brought in ‘cause I knew you and could be your advocate. How you think it feels to ‘ave tortured you by neglect when I was right down the hall waiting to hear you needed something? I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m sorry. You gotta have some shreds of confidence in humanity, okay?”

  Nick met his eyes. “Try sitting in this chair.”

  “Aster, I can’t count how many times you kept me from giving up on the human race. Won’t let you give up on it now.”

  Nick looked away, nibbling the inside of his lower lip. He looked between John and the guard. There was a lost look joining the pain in his expression.

  “I truly don’t understand the law, and rules, and people who abide them. You two, Nick Kasdan, Gary Wills, all those guys out in intake ....you’re good people.”

  He looked between them again, truly looking confused. “You tortured me today just because rules and laws said so. John -- you could’ve said, cut the anklet, I’ll meet you in New Orleans and we can play until this blows over, but no, ‘Nick can’t leave the state.’ So if I want to obey the law, I have to submit myself to this, and the lot of you have to put me through a nightmare?”

  John and Larson glanced at each other. Help. He’s sort of right.

  “I’m not gonna begin to justify any part of this,” said John.

  Nick closed his eyes and his head sagged again. Larson backed out, brought in a flimsy plastic chair, and handed it to John.

  “Thanks,” said John. “Do me a favor and ask your doc to review Aster’s file. Call the warden if you need to. I think he’s hurting too bad for these pills to do enough. See if they can give him a shot, tell ‘em I know this guy and he’s not an addict.”

  Larson nodded and closed the door softly behind him. John sat close to Nick’s side, facing him. He remembered Nick’s plea to be talked to and distracted when he was in pain at the Langley’s.

  “You’re gonna feel better soon,” he assured Nick. “And I’ll get you out of that thing, and you’ll be back taunting tigers with chunks of raw meat before you know it.”

  Nick opened his eyes part way. “Huh?” There was a tiny smile on his lips.

  “I decided on the plane out to DC that I needed to get you a nice, safe hobby, like maybe training circus tigers.”

  “Sounds fun,” said Nick, his voice weak. “We should go undercover.”

  “All we gotta do is figure out how investment fraud relates to jumping through rings of fire, an’ it’s a go,” said John. Nick lacked the strength to respond, but his lips twitched in amusement.

  John felt sick, and looked around for a handy spot to throw up just in case. Seeing Nick so completely victimized by good and caring people was almost worse than seeing him bleeding out in Riker’s. He should never have left.

  And just as sickening, he couldn’t take his terrified and miserable friend and John home and comfort him. This wouldn’t be over for Nick until he was out from behind bars.

  NICK

  The pain will be over soon. The pain will be over soon.

  Nick repeated it to himself, over and over again. He’d found that if he really believed it would end soon, the pain wasn’t bad at all. If he allowed the fear of its continuing to enter his mind, he wanted to bash his brains out.

  He was starting to notice little things. He was no longer aware of every breath he took. He didn’t feel the impulse to moan to distract himself. His fingernails were spending less time clenched into his palms.

  The pills are working. The pain will be over soon.

  John was talking to him, the familiar rough, gentle voice providing companionship and distraction without demanding comprehension or reply.

  “Don’t tangle with that FBI agent,” someone warned just outside the door. “He’ll bite your head off.”

  Nick forced his eyes open, and a man in scrubs walked in. “This Nick Aster?” he asked John.

  John nodded, and without introduction or explanation, the guy strode up brandishing a syringe and an alcohol pad.

  “Hi ....” said Nick.

  “Hi,” said the man shortly. “Supposed to give you a shot.” He started scrubbing Nick’s upper arm near the shoulder with the pad.

  “Cyanide, I presume?” asked Nick, determined to get this guy to treat him as at least one-sixth human.

  The needle was plunged into muscle.

  “No, something more exotic. Polonium 210?” suggested Nick.

  “Tramadol,” said the nurse, pulling the needle out. “Pain reliever. Kicks in pretty fast.”

  Nick managed to lock eyes with the guy and smile. “Thanks. Really, thanks.”

  Almost reluctantly, the guy met his eyes and his expression softened. “You’re welcome. Feel better.”

  John spoke up. “Thanks. Don’t suppose you have anything he can lie on after I pull him out of this chair?”

  “Could bring you a gurney?”

  “That’d be great,” said John.

  Nick crumbled again when the door closed behind the nurse. It was a hard mask to put up right now.

  “You’re gonna be okay, Nick,” John assured him.

  Nick closed his eyes. Please say that again.

  “You’re gonna be okay. Hang in there.”

  “Mind-reader,” Nick muttered with a half-smile.

  John’s phone went nuts. Nick opened his eyes and watched him check it, blink, and decide which of the three incoming calls to take.

  “Hey, sweetie.” John’s eyes widened, and he went stiff. “You okay? Ochre?”

  Oh, no. What?

  “John?” Nick asked, his stomach plummeting like an elevator.

  Tell me they’re okay. Please, please -

  John glanced up at him. “NYPD just raided my house. Looking for you.”

  Nick stopped breathing, choked on his own tongue, and started coughing. John touched him, a single brief squeeze of the shoulder.

  “They’re okay.”

  Nick started breathing again.

  After reassuring Mari, John stared at the phone. He stared at Nick. He called the office back. He called Alice back.

  When he finally tucked the phone in his pocket and met Nick’s anxious gaze, he let out a long breath. “Well. NYPD hit my house, your apartment, and the FBI simultaneously.”

  “Everyone okay?” asked Nick.

  “Yeah. No damage, either.”

  Nick eyed the door and hoped it was locked, or at least that Larson was out there. His hands were shaking, and he shrank down into the chair as if to make himself harder to see.

  He wanted to crawl into the deepest, darkest cell in here and ask about ten times if the door was strong enough to keep them out. Sing Sing had just turned into the most welcoming shelter imaginable. Forget his trauma-induced flip-outs, the pain, the ache of captivity. He’d endur
ed that horrifying ordeal with the precious knowledge that he was basically safe, that the creatures of his nightmares might claw him a bit but wouldn’t sink their fangs into his jugular.

  The real monsters were sniffing at the door, and the dread he felt at the mere idea of being thrown outside the gates was the real deal, cold and serious. He was in a safe haven.

  “John, thank you.” Nick’s voice shook, but he didn’t care. He was so grateful to the man, he could cry. “Thank you. I’m sorry I yelled, I’m sorry I thought those things --”