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

by Ariadne Beckett

  Nick gave him a sort of wistful look.

  “Mari and I had this sad little discussion, about how we loved how you fell asleep with us, and loved that soft side of you, and we were sad that it’d probably never happen again. We were arguing about the relative creepiness levels of her versus me inviting you to a sleepover.”

  Nick blinked rapidly. “I -- treasured that, and Mari holding me while I cried, and it’s the sort of thing that just -- taunts me with what could have been and what could be. I didn’t know -- maybe still don’t -- how I was ever going to look you in the eye again.”

  “You deserve comfort and safety and love. If you can feel that with us, I’m honored,” said John. “From what I’m guessing about your past, you’ve got a lot of it to make up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Touching

  JOHN

  “Langley.” The crisp voice outside the cell startled them both. “Warden wants you in his office.”

  John gave Nick’s hand a squeeze and followed the guard, who had the gleeful look of the school snitch escorting someone to the principle’s office.

  “Good afternoon, Agent Langley,” said warden Welch with the air of a man exercising great restraint.

  John fought the urge to shift uneasily. “Howdy.”

  “This was mostly my mistake, assuming you knew how things worked. But you’re done as a ‘CO.’”

  “Uh?” John grinned at him. “I didn’t yell at one single person, all day.”

  “Nope. Today you went into full-cuddle mode and got in a real sharing mood with your weapons. Unless strictly necessary, COs aren’t allowed to touch inmates.”

  John frowned. “Let me get this right. It’s fine for a CO to handcuff them, pin them down and cut their clothes off, strap them into chairs, and drag them in and out of cells, but heaven forbid someone in uniform hugs a guy in need of comfort?”

  “I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, and probably to Aster more than others. But you sure as hell make sure there aren’t cameras or passing inmates or other officers around. It’s courting a sexual assault suit, and it can get inmates beaten to hell and back if someone starts thinking they’re a snitch or sexually involved with a CO. I don’t think I need to explain ‘don’t give inmates your damn weapons.”

  “Sorry,” said John. “I honestly didn’t know the no-touching thing, and I forgot the context of where I was when it came to the baton and pepper spray. I couldn’t work with Aster for five minutes out there if I didn’t trust him with my life as far as weapons are concerned.”

  “Thanks for the apology,” said the warden. “But the six complaints I’ve fielded today are too many. Since you’re FBI, I’ll allow you to visit him in the infirmary. But no sitting around in the cell with the guy. You come in once a day, ask how he’s doing, and leave.”

  John realized his fists were clenched. “Put me in there with him for real, then. That’s what I thought you were going to make me do in the first place.”

  “No.”

  Rescue came in the form of an alarmed knock on the door. Too bad it wasn’t so much rescue, as a turn for the worse. Welch’s administrative assistant, a mousy guy in a houndstooth suit tailored in the seventies, burst in without waiting. “Uh - I’m sorry to interrupt, but the infirmary called ....”

  “And?” snapped John, his already elevated heartbeat rising to unpleasant levels.

  “They’re wondering if they can have Langley back, Aster’s having some sort of medication reaction, they want Langley there so it doesn’t scare Aster when they handle him ....”

  Welch sighed. “Go.”

  John couldn’t keep the smug out of his expression when he nodded before bolting out the door.

  JOHN

  Nick was vomiting uncontrollably into the metal toilet, unable to stop retching even when nothing came up, and his eyes were glassy and teary from pain and misery when he spared a glance at John.

  John knelt and immediately violated the no-touching rule, supporting him with one hand on each side of his ribcage. Nick was in no shape to talk, so John asked the nearest nurse. “What happened?”

  “We need to get an IV in, he’s gonna fight, so we were thinking you should hold him ....”

  “I asked what happened,” snapped John.

  “Uh -- we switched out his antibiotic, put him on Augmentin, it’s a lot cheaper but it looks like he’s having a bad reaction to it --”

  John bit his lip, hard, to keep from exploding on the guy. “And you want to do what?”

  “Put in an IV, give him some anti-nausea meds and --”

  Nick retched, and cried out in terrible pain, and John bit down even harder until he tasted blood. He took Nick’s lower arm gently in his. “Okay with them putting in an IV?”

  “Yes,” gasped Nick, sounding as miserable as a person possibly could.

  John twisted Nick’s arm around carefully until the vein was accessible, feeling him tremble in weakness. The nurse was skilled, at least, and got a vein on the first try. A second nurse started pushing drugs into the line, but stopped when Nick let out an agonized cry and went stiff, shaking in what John recognized a second later as a convulsion.

  JOHN

  Nick was suffering. There wasn’t anything more they could do. No, it wasn’t because Nick was a prisoner, the doctor and two nurses insisted.

  They’d medicated him heavily for nausea, for the allergic reaction, for pain, but he was still nauseated, still hurting, and more pain medication would just make him sicker. Nick was just going to have to wait it out until his body settled down. They’d wanted to restrain him, to strap him to the bed in case he had another seizure, but John vetoed it and promised not to leave Nick’s side.

  “Does holding him in case of a seizure count as ‘necessary’ touching?” asked John sarcastically.

  “Huh?” He got a blank look from the nurse.

  “If anyone wants to give me any bullshit about touching Aster, tell ‘em to give it to me, not the warden,” said John. “And put something up across the window of this cell so the poor guy can at least suffer in private.”

  “Inmates aren’t allowed to cover the windows of their cells, sir,” said the nurse. “It’s a safety issue.”

  “I’m in here,” said John. “I’ll come get you if he gets worse.”

  A CO came up behind the nurse and glared at John.

  So you’re the one that ran to Welch, thought John.

  “Are you fucking stupid, or just really innocent?” asked the CO. “How’s that gonna work out if he stabs you, or you rape the guy? This isn’t the kind of place where closed doors and dark alleys are a good idea.”

  John closed his eyes momentarily and drew in his breath. “What’s the camera in the corner of the cell for again? I assume the control room’ll have enough snide remarks to supply the whole facility for a year, but it’s gonna be sadly lacking in stabbing and raping in here. What I won’t risk is some inmate wandering by and thinking Aster’s a love-stricken snitch because I’m trying to comfort a suffering friend. Cover the window.”

  “You think I walk around wishing I could get sued for everything I own?” asked the nurse. “No.”

  John stood, clenched his fists with deliberate menace, and paced towards them.

  “Let’s trade that potential lawsuit for the one we won’t file against you for switching meds prescribed by one of the best trauma docs in the city, just to save money, and throwing an inmate into a serious allergic reaction.”

  The nurse glanced at the CO. “Cover the door. Don’t let anyone except Langley take it down.”

  John watched the nurse leave, his heart aching.

  The pain medication didn’t stop sharp, unpredictable spasms from knifing through Nick’s wounded stomach. His eyes were still glazed and wet from nausea.

  Nick’s body jerked, and he caught a sharp, high whimper on its way out. John pulled the wheelchair chair close to the side of the bed, and hesitated.

  He had no doubt the contr
ol room would be watching, or that Welch would be pissed if John completely disregarded his “no touching” lecture. Nick was miserable, and no amount of hand-holding or shoulder-patting would change that. Maybe he should just sit with his friend, being there and talking softly.

  He’d realized two things early on. The first was that as smug and fearless as Nick was, he was also sensitive and anxious. The second was that they enjoyed being close to each other. Nick loved to be in hugging distance, and was happiest tucked right up against John’s side.

  For John, there was something warm and comfortable and soft and trusted about having him there. It was like having a tiger admitting only to John that he was secretly a purring kitten.

  Most of the people John dealt with as suspects - or convicts - hated him or were afraid of him. The last thing they wanted was a nice pat on the back from an FBI agent....although come to think of it, that’d be one hell of a way to ramp up the creepiness level of a hostile interrogation. Probably get him sued.

  Nick had melted his heart when John arrested him by being neither afraid of him nor hating him. By moving closer and relaxing when John, acting on sheer instinct, had braved putting a comforting hand on his arm when he seemed scared.

  He’d learned long ago not to chew Nick out, especially if he was cuffed, without holding a hand on his back, or at least touching him afterward. Not unless he wanted to truly rattle Nick, and contrary to immediate instinct, a rattled Nick was not a law-abiding Nick.

  Nick knew exactly how easy it was for words to lie. John suspected that Nick trusted touch and body language far more. This was where truth could be found in the midst of anything else that was happening.

  John leaned against the bed and stretched his left arm out under Nick’s neck, supporting his head. Crooking his arm so that Nick’s head was in the V of his elbow, he put his left hand on Nick shoulder and upper chest. His right hand, he laid as softly as possible on Nick’s wounded stomach. He’d read that touch could ease pain, and he’d try anything.

  Another terrible jerk started in Nick’s stomach and ripped through his body.

  “Shhhhh,” said John. “Hang in there.”

  Nick’s moan was a lost, questioning one. Do I deserve this?

  “You don’t deserve this. Any more’n any violent crime victim deserves their suffering, any more’n a toddler named Nick Aster deserved to be beaten.”

  Nick’s breathing steadied. “This will end,” John assured him. “You’re a good man, you’re not alone, you’re loved --”

  Another spasm choked off Nick’s breathing, his body jerked with pain, and he turned his head to stifle his moan against John’s arm.

  “Easy,” said John. “Focus on what doesn’t hurt. Breathe steady, think about anything but the next spasm.”

  “Like being beaten,” Nick managed to whisper, his eyes screwed shut.

  “Nobody wants you to hurt. Can you feel me holding you?”

  There was a stillness for a second. Nick was feeling. Then he nuzzled his face against John’s arm and he relaxed just a fraction before the next jerk hit. John hugged him, hard, to distract him, and he didn’t moan.

  “That’s good,” whispered John. “That’s good.”

  “Hand -- on my stomach ....press down?” asked Nick. Both of his own fists were clenched, nails biting into palms.

  Keeping his hand broad and flat and soft, John slowly applied pressure. He could feel an electric quiver of confused nerves and muscles, and understood. When the next spasm came, the pressure of his hand derailed it, made it less violent. He pressed just a little harder, finding the tightest stomach muscles with his fingers and pushing against them. It must hurt, but less than those awful wrenching jerks.

  The next was the weakest yet, and Nick gasped in relief, a tear slipping from the corner of one closed eye.

  “There we go,” whispered John. “Good. Hang in there, Nick.”

  He held his friend tight and pressed and talked to him as slowly, the spasms lost their power and his body slowly unwound from the tension of pain. It took what seemed like forever, but finally Nick relaxed, muscle by muscle, and started breathing easily.

  This was a deeply intimate thing, Nick letting him feel every twitch of his body, how every touch and breath affected him. When he was weakest, Nick was taking off the mask and trusting completely.

  The bruises were still plain, but the swelling was gone. You could once again see the refinement and beauty. He looked young. He wasn’t so terribly young any longer, but neither was John. John was finding his own ideas of what “young” was shifting as he grew older himself.

  And he wished intensely that Nick Aster had been his son. His to nurture and teach, to hold and comfort and support. His to never abandon, or hit.

  But maybe, just maybe, Nick Aster could be his lover. His lover to heal and caress and cuddle. His to love unconditionally.

  When Nick’s body was finally relaxed, John kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Go to sleep, Nick. It’s safe.”

  Exhausted from pain and nausea, Nick did sleep. John didn’t move an inch, cradling Nick’s head in his arm and keeping a warm palm on his stomach. His arm went to sleep and his muscles ached, but he didn’t move.

  NICK

  When Nick awoke, before he opened his eyes or moved a muscle, he remembered he was in prison. He remembered having been beaten. He felt something akin to joy. And then he felt John still holding him, and he opened his eyes.

  He didn’t really care about physical pain. He hated it, but it didn’t seem to induce the same dread in him as most people. What ripped his soul apart was begging, truly pleading with every desperate, horrified, screaming ounce of his humanity, for mercy.

  You can’t do this, no, please, please, no, you can’t --

  Oh, yes, I can.

  Smile.

  He hadn’t known such wounds could be healed. But this week, John and Mari were healing them. He’d finally found something that made a deeper impact than cruelty. Being safe, loved, protected and soothed when he was helpless. Handing someone a road map of how to hurt him, and feeling John’s hand explore with a sensitivity that felt every quivering nerve and found a way to soothe it.

  It was hard for Nick to admit. He wanted a pair of warm, strong arms belonging to someone mightier than him to climb into. While being hunted was one of the worst feelings in the world, having someone track his every move with an anklet, drag him out of a Bermuda jail, and haul his terrified self out of a car when he tried to flee was the closest thing to being cared about, really, truly cared about, as he’d ever had in his life. Genuine, unvarnished, selfless, intense caring.

  Power didn’t always abuse. Power could love, and feel, and forgive and reassure and comfort.

  He smiled. “I’m almost glad I got beat up.”

  JOHN

  John blinked. His jaw dropped. He stared.

  Nick was lying there, limp and pale, sleepy, weak. He’d just gone through total misery. He was bruised, cut, stabbed, and nerve-damaged. He was in prison.

  And he looked content, almost happy. His eyes were soft, his smile small and relaxed and genuine.

  “If you were back in Riker’s that day, about to grab the phone, and you knew everything that would happen, would you still do it?” asked John.

  Then it hit him. That look on Nick’s face was love. It was the expression of a man experiencing trust and discovering he was cared deeply about. And to a cynical con artist who trusted nobody and had nobody to care about him, that was worth any amount of suffering.

  Nick had to think about the answer to John’s question. Then he had to think about the answer John would want.

  “The real answer, Nick. Trust me,” said John softly.

  “Yes.”

  John blinked. A sneaking suspicion had been the reason he asked the question. It went back to punishment, no matter how severe, being useless at changing Nick’s behavior. But seeing how deeply and how long Nick had suffered ....

  “Why?” as
ked John.

  “Partly the ‘screw you’ factor,” admitted Nick with a look so mulish John could practically see his ears pinned back. “That’d be the impulse thing. But if I thought about it, I’d make the same choice.”

  “Why?”

  “The selfless answer would be that it exposed some pretty horrific practices, got some very brutal people arrested and some bad ones fired, and it’s gonna take down Starr, who’s been just plain evil for decades. That’s a lot of human suffering, and if I have to take a beating to start the process of ending it, then so be it.”