Braided Lives

by A. R. Moler

  Peter stretched out on the bed beside him and pulled Danny tightly against his body. "It's okay. I'll take care of you," he whispered.

  Danny buried his face in Peter's shoulder and let himself slide into sleep.

  ***

  Fourteen hours was a pretty damn long time to sleep. Peter was relieved when Danny finally woke and stumbled off to the bathroom. Danny came back and sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair.

  "Damn, it's looks like afternoon. How long was I out?" Danny asked.

  "Nearly fourteen hours. You still tired?"

  "Um, yeah. Shit, I haven't felt this wiped out after being up for forty-eight hours. If I wasn't starving I'd think about crawling back in bed."

  "Then do so, but strip first. I want to test your reflexes head to toes. While you undress I'll go grab you some food from the cafeteria," Peter said. Despite the fact he'd played watchdog over Danny while he slept, Peter was still concerned. CNS problems were sometimes very hard to fix. A brutal vision of watching his father die by inches from ALS tore through Peter's head. The memory shook him and he was hard pressed not to grab Danny and hold him very tightly.

  "I think I can manage to walk to the other end of the building. You can do the reflex thing after we grab some food," Danny objected.

  "No. I want you in bed. I watched you walk to the bathroom and back. Your coordination sucks big time. It may just be postictal to the episode yesterday; I'm trying to figure it out."

  "Post-ictal? That makes me sound like a dead fish," replied Danny and he rolled his eyes.

  Peter cupped his hands around Danny's face. "That's 'ichthy'. Please. Humor me. I'm worried." He kissed Danny softly.

  ***

  All the neurological tests were normal. Danny ate the sandwich and salad that Peter brought him. It satisfied the hunger, but he still felt dead tired. It just made no sense that he could sleep that long and still feel exhausted. He was stretched out in the bed again, this time buck naked under the sheets. He could feel the concern seeping from Peter, and that bothered him.

  "Wake me up in about a week," he teased, trying to lighten the tension a little.

  "Crap. Don't joke about that. I keep wondering if I missed something," said Peter. "Fuck it. Scoot over. I'm going to be your shadow until I'm sure you're okay." He ditched all his clothes on the floor beside the bed and slid in next to Danny. Peter wrapped an arm across Danny's chest. "Go to sleep."

  Danny brushed a finger across his lover's lips. "Talk to me. Tell me why you're so bent out shape. I've seen you with your hands inside people guts, holding back death until they can get to surgery. Why is this wigging you out so badly?" He rolled over enough to place a careful kiss on Peter's mouth. This wasn't like Peter to be so close to distraught.

  "My dad died of a really aggressive form of ALS. I watched him die, day by day. Every night I poured every ounce of energy I had left into him, trying to stop it, trying to fix him, trying just to slow it down. I made every mistake in the book and ended up unconscious of the floor of my math class. I was in a coma for three days. And during those three days, my father died. Whatever I was doing for him was all that was holding him on this side of the veil. The problem was I nearly killed myself trying to save him."

  Danny's heart hurt with the grief of Peter's admission. "How old were you?" he asked.

  "Sixteen."

  Danny didn't know what to say. There weren't any words to solace the pain Peter had been through. He squirmed around to a position where he could pull Peter's body against his own, wrapping both arms and one leg around his lover. He rained gentle kisses down the side of Peter's face.

  Chapter 3

  Early June

  One of Division P's finders, a Navy pilot named Cameron Bradshaw, had been critically injured in a motorcycle accident. Danny Valentine had been to the hospital to check on his status. Thankfully, the man appeared to be reasonably stable, even if he was in the ICU. Still, Danny worried, something about the accident didn't feel right. Bradshaw had been tapped for a potential assignment from Division P for Naval Intelligence, but then the assignment had been put on hold.

  Danny had called the hospital this morning to make sure Bradshaw was still improving. Apparently so, since the man had been moved from ICU to a standard room. It was always a dicey call on whether Division P should interfere with injuries not incurred during an assignment. Peter, Stephen, and himself had gone a couple of rounds with Bottman and the other powers that be on where the dividing line should be drawn. For now, it appeared that Bradshaw was being adequately cared for by the civilian hospital.

  ***

  Jennifer opened the door to the workout room. Time to go meet "Thor" and butt heads some more. One side of the room was all equipment: treadmills, ellipticals, and weight machines; the other side was mats. Valentine was sitting on a weight bench, waiting for her. He was dressed in a T-shirt and sweat pants, no shoes. She was so not in the mood for this. The morning had been a grueling episode in mental focus and she had done badly. Her head hurt and she was in an incredibly pissy mood.

  "You ready for some basic self-defense?" he asked.

  "No." Hey, at least she was being honest.

  "Mmm. Well, tough. Take off your shoes. Stand on the mat. I'm going to grab you. I want to see what your response is. Then we'll talk defense strategies." He waited until she had taken off her shoes and was standing in front him, then he reached out and grabbed her wrist. Jesus, the man's hand went around the entirety of her wrist and then some. "Try to get away," he said, grabbing her hair. God that sounded like a sarcastic challenge. Fuck this shit.

  Jennifer smashed her elbow across his face, drove her fist into his solar plexus and boosted him off his feet with her hip, hurling him to the floor. When he hit, he lay still, fighting for breath, and bleeding profusely from his nose. She stood immobile in pure fury for about three seconds, until it dawned on her that she had hurt him. Oh God, her day just kept getting better and better. There was a stack of towels by the door and she hurriedly grabbed a couple, dropping beside him and trying to stop the bleeding.

  "I'm… shit… I'm sorry… I just meant to make a point. I didn't mean to really hurt you."

  Valentine's eyes were tearing. His hand came up and over hers, pressing the towel to his face at a different angle. "God, it hurts," he mumbled.

  "Somebody told me there was a clinic and a really good healer guy. Can you walk? Or should I go get somebody?"

  "I can walk… I think," he replied.

  She helped him to his feet, and guided him toward the door. His steps were unsteady. Damn, she'd made a mess of things.

  It took a couple of minutes to walk to the clinic. There was that slender man with sharp features wearing scrubs there. He was talking to a woman she didn't recognize. What the hell was the guy's name? Jennifer remembered being introduced to him sometime in the past few weeks. His eyes widened when he saw Valentine, blood splattered down the front of his shirt, blood soaked towel held to his face.

  "Danny! Shit, what happened?" the man demanded. He took over for Jennifer and guided Valentine to an exam table, hastily grabbing gloves and gauze and another towel. "Okay, easy, just lie back and let me get the bleeding stopped."

  Valentine lay down and the medic cupped his hand across Danny's bloody nose. The injured man's body relaxed somewhat. Jennifer slid down the wall beside the door and sat on the floor. The entire day had been a disaster. She was impatient, she'd let her really evil temper get away from her, and she'd hurt somebody. She found Valentine irritating as hell, but he didn't deserve to get hurt by her. He was just doing his job.

  She looped her arms under her legs and buried her face against her knees, trying hard to stave off the tears. She wasn't being very successful at it, so she got up and hurried from the room.

  ***

  "Okay, fess up, what happened?" demanded Peter. He had stopped the blood flow from Danny's nose and was careful cleaning the blood from Danny's face while he held the pain i
n check.

  "I was supposed to be giving Sebastiano a self defense lesson. She caught me off-guard. Is it broken?" asked Danny.

  "No, I don't think so, surprisingly. Despite the fact it bled like hell, the lower edge of your eye socket seems to have caught more of the impact. I'll X-ray it just to be sure, though. You're going to have a major black eye, at least 'til I get it fixed." It would take some healing to tame down the swelling and bruising.

  "Maybe you should let Sebastiano know she didn't kill me. I think she was kind of upset," said Danny.

  "Where is she?"

  "I thought she was over by the door."

  "Nope," replied Peter.

  "Well crap. Where'd she go? Maybe I should go look for her." Danny tried to sit up, but Peter put a hand on his chest and prevented him.

  "You're not going anywhere for the next half hour, while I work on your face. Lie down and don't squirm around. I'll sit on you if I have to," Peter threatened.

  Danny rolled his eyes.

  ***

  Suitcases open on the floor, Jennifer stopped her packing and flung herself on the bed. Tears were streaming down her face and her head was pounding hard enough to make her feel sick. The program was reputed to take an average of ten weeks. She'd been here five. Whatever made her think she could do this? She sobbed into the pillow. Division P may have done the recruiting, but she'd said yes. What the hell had she been thinking? An artist could turn into a "secret agent"? Better to leave now and avoid the humiliation of being told to leave. Christine, the woman who had run the focus session, had been very displeased with Jennifer's performance this morning, even going so far as to express doubts as to why Jennifer had been offered training at all. Nothing this week had really gone right. And now she'd injured the guy who was supposed to be conducting the combat parts of her instruction.

  The headache was turning into a full-fledged migraine, and she buried her face deeper against the pillow, trying to block out the light. The nausea was creeping higher too. She barely even heard the knock at the door. Whoever the hell it was could just go the fuck away. She'd be out of their hair as soon as she stopped being curled up in pain.

  ***

  There was no answer when Danny knocked on the door to Sebastiano's quarters. He stood there for a moment, thinking. There wasn't any indication she'd gone elsewhere. He put his hand flat on her door, wondering if she was inside. It was an unconscious gesture, not really necessary, just a little physical trigger for his mental quest.

  She was inside, he could tell, and very, very upset. He had an internal little argument. Psi were a particularly odd group of people as a whole. Most tended toward incredibly strong emotions and unpredictable reactions, but that very sensitivity was a component of what made them capable of what they did. Did she need someone to check on her? Should it be him? Or was that going to compound the problem? He opened his shielding further. She was in pain, physical pain. He made a snap decision and pulled his pass key from his pocket to unlock the door.

  The inside of her quarters was silent and she wasn't in view in the main den/kitchen area. He walked through into the bedroom. She was curled on the bed, dim late afternoon light filtering through the curtains.

  "Sebastiano?" he said softly. She gave no response. "Jennifer?" He walked around to the other side of the bed and knelt down. One arm was up in front of her face and her hands were fisted. He knelt down beside the bed and gently touched her shoulder. Pain was roaring through her and he grimaced at the intensity. Headaches and migraines were a fact of life for many psi.

  "Go 'way," she mumbled.

  "I wanted to make sure you were okay." He glanced at the open suitcases and guessed that she was planning on bailing. However, right now, she wasn't going anywhere, except maybe off to see Peter. "You're not. Do you want to go to the clinic or have Peter come to you?"

  "Le' me alone. Please," she said.

  He brushed one finger against the back of her hand. Guilt, despair and agony were not a good combination. They made people make stupid choices.

  "Nope." He picked up the phone at the bedside and dialed the infirmary. Sandra, one of the nurses, answered. "Is Peter still there?" Danny asked.

  "No. I think he went to the cafeteria."

  Danny was unsurprised. After doing work on Danny's face, the healer was probably hungry. "See if you can find him. I'm bringing Jennifer Sebastiano back to the infirmary. She has a migraine. A bad one."

  "Okay, got it."

  "Come on. Let's go." He gently pulled her up into a seated position. She didn't resist too much. Danny helped her stand and with one arm under her elbow and one arm around her body, he guided her out the door. "You can close your eyes if you want, I won't let you walk into anything."

  "Deserve it," she muttered.

  "No you don't. You gave me a bloody nose and a black eye. Big deal. It's not like you did any permanent damage."

  ***

  If someone had informed her that there was a machete protruding from the side of her head, Jennifer would have instantly agreed and said that it went in through her right eye socket and came out at the base of her skull. She could barely open her eyes. This was nothing particularly new. The migraines came without much warning, sometimes several in one week; other times there were weeks or months in between. She had long known that they were tied in some way to the psychic thing. If Danny Valentine hadn't been guiding her along the unfamiliar hallway, she probably would have been inching along, one hand on the wall and the other over her eyes.

  She couldn't comprehend why he was being nice to her or why he didn't seem to be utterly furious. Not that she was thinking too straight at the moment.

  "Almost there. Maybe I should have just picked you up and carried you," he said.

  "Bring her in here," said the voice of the medical guy. Damn, why couldn't she remember his name? Except for seeing him very briefly earlier in the day, she thought she'd met him just the once before. The room she was led into was blissfully dim. "There's a bed right beside you. You can sit down on it. My name's Peter. Seems to me you told me something about being really bad with names when Miko introduced us."

  Jennifer gingerly sat down and Valentine's hands let go. She almost reached for him. Between the guilt of having hurt him and confusion at his kindness, his arms supporting and guiding her had been strangely welcome. Peter's hands touched her face and the nausea and pain slid away with such speed, she thought she was going to pass out. Four hands grabbed her, eased her back to lie flat on the bed. The world was gray and spinning, but the pain had seemingly been sucked away.

  "Just relax. I'm blocking out your pain perception. It's not actually gone. You're just not noticing it. It's going to take me a little while to fix it," said Peter.

  "Anything you want me to do?" asked Valentine.

  "No, I'm good. Just pull the door shut on the way out. Oh, and go change your shirt. You look like you murdered somebody."

  "Yeah, yeah. I got sidetracked. I'll probably check back and see how she's doing in a couple hours."

  Fingers pressed lightly at various points on her head and face. It was soothing in an odd way. She kept expecting the usual neuro stuff -- somebody peering in her eyeballs with an agonizingly bright light and being asked to touch her nose. All those difficult and irritating things they did to you in the ER. They didn't happen. She was tired, exhausted tired.

  "Do you want to take a nap? I could nudge things in that direction," offered Peter.

  "You're the psychic healer."

  "Yeah, that's me. We're pretty few and far between. I guess you could say I'm top dog on that front around here."