Unspeakable Words

by Sarah Madison

  Flynn shouldered past Jerry on his way back to the building, his expression as grim as if Jerry had spoken his thoughts aloud. He reached the door and tried the handle, only to discover that it was now locked. He pulled at it furiously several times before giving up and smacking the door in disgust. Jerry was relieved that now there was no question about going on to the hospital as planned.

  “No need to be so happy about it,” Flynn snarled at Jerry’s approach.

  “Um, happy?” Jesus, this is getting weird. Jerry needed to get Flynn to the hospital ASAP. What if he had some sort of brain damage?

  “You, happy that the door is locked, and we can’t get back in.” Flynn was busily pulling out his phone and dialing, presumably Ms. Marsden’s number. “And I don’t have brain damage. We need to get back inside. Something’s wrong here. Shit,” he added vehemently, glaring at Jerry, phone to his ear. “I got her voice mail. Yes,” he said into the phone. “Ms. Marsden, this is Special Agent Flynn. We can’t get into the building. You need to come let us in.” He pocketed the phone. “You wait here,” he ordered. “I’m going to check the main entrance. No, it’s not a waste of time!”

  He stalked off even as Jerry stood uneasily, watching him go. Something was wrong, all right… with Flynn. When Flynn reached the main sidewalk, he suddenly stopped and staggered, like he’d been struck a blow. Jerry found himself running toward him.

  When Jerry reached him, Flynn was hunched over, his arms folded over his abdomen like he hurt. He flinched at Jerry’s touch, looking wild-eyed as he spun away, blowing hard through his nose, every line in his body poised for the need to fight or run. He looked like a feral cat trapped in a corner and ready to defend itself.

  “Hey now,” Jerry said soothingly, reaching out a hand in Flynn’s direction. “Everything’s going to be all right. We just need to get you to a hospital.”

  Several pedestrians gave them a wide berth as they skirted by them. Flynn’s head snapped up, and he seemed to be following their movement as they passed. When he turned back to look at Jerry, he looked so lost and upset that Jerry was instantly filled with compassion for him.

  “Okay,” Flynn mumbled, dropping his head to stare at his shoes. “Yeah. Hospital’s starting to sound like a good idea.”

  Jesus. He must be fucking dying.

  Flynn shot him an extremely dirty look for no apparent reason before he suddenly slumped. He followed Jerry reluctantly to the car. The closing of the car doors shut out the sounds of the street outside, and Flynn released a little sound of relief as he settled into his seat.

  Jerry cast him a glance and started the car, pulling out into the traffic before Flynn could change his mind. Disturbingly, Flynn leaned forward and sat with his head cradled in his hands. Jerry opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Flynn gave an exaggerated sigh and sat up, buckling his seat belt around him. Jerry was oddly grateful that he hadn’t had to bug Flynn about it.

  The nearest hospital proved to be Saint Francis Memorial, the one they’d visited earlier in the day. Jerry took the car into the parking lot at a bit higher rate of speed than was actually necessary and slammed the gearshift into park, jumping out and coming around to the passenger side of the car as Flynn was still unbuckling his seatbelt.

  “I could go get a wheelchair,” Jerry said uncertainly and then rolled his eyes when Flynn ignored him and got out of the car. Of course he’d walk into the ER. “With his shield or on it,” according to Plutarch. He tried to imagine the woman who would send her son off to war with that sentiment; obviously the women of Sparta were not the sorts of moms one went to with a boo-boo.

  “What the hell are you going on about?” Flynn frowned at him as Jerry locked the car.

  “What do you mean? I didn’t say anything.” Jerry frowned back at Flynn, whose mouth tightened into a grim line. Not waiting for him, Flynn spun on his heel and began stalking toward the ER entrance. As they approached the doors, however, Flynn began to falter. When Jerry tried to take him by the arm for support, Flynn snatched it away and moved with determination through the automatic doors, only to come to a grinding halt just inside.

  Jerry almost ran into him. Flynn had brought both hands, balled tight into fists, up to his eyes, blocking his sight. Jerry cast his glance around the room, trying to determine what was freaking him out. Flynn’s behavior was really starting to worry him. He’d never seen the guy be anything but cool and in control. Well, if you discounted that scene in the kitchen the other night, when he thought Flynn might punch him. Was it possible for schizophrenia to occur secondary to an electrical shock?

  “Will you just shut the fuck up?” Flynn ground out, thumping his fists on his forehead slightly.

  Oh, this isn’t good.

  No one paid any attention. Televisions mounted in the corners of the room were quietly showing CNN. Exhausted-looking people read magazines or looked out into the room with dull expressions; one man was seated on the floor by an electrical outlet so he could plug in his laptop. A woman was curled up asleep on several adjoining chairs, taking up two or three spaces. An old man sat in a wheelchair, coughing moistly into a handkerchief. Somewhere a child started a thin wail of pain that cut right through Jerry’s chest and made him seriously consider waiting in the car. At the front desk, a woman was angrily demanding to know how much longer it would be before she was seen. It felt like there was a sea of people who’d arrived before them, waiting to be examined. Christ, we’ll be here for hours, Jerry thought.

  He heard a harsh, gasping sound beside him and looked down when Flynn’s fingers closed in a white-knuckle grip on his arm. “Hey! Cut it out,” he complained, prying back Flynn’s middle finger until he let go.

  Flynn released him, but the look on his face was ghastly. “Get me out of here. For the love of God, Jerry, get me out of here.”

  He looked so awful that Jerry found himself guiding him back toward the door, shaken by the fact that Flynn had called him by his first name. Before they made it out the exit, Flynn sank to his knees and curled up on his side on the floor, arms coming up to cover his head as though warding off a blow.

  “Flynn. Flynn!” Jerry tried to get through to him, but Flynn acted as though he couldn’t hear him. Jerry knelt down and took him by the shoulder. “Come on, you can’t stay here.”

  Flynn coiled himself around Jerry’s leg, his fingers digging into to Jerry’s ankle. It was deeply disturbing, and Jerry couldn’t help patting him on the shoulder.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” A woman came through the pneumatic doors with a man, his hand wrapped up in a kitchen towel, bleeding heavily and soaking through. “Can’t you people find a room somewhere?”

  “Becky…,” the man with her began, a pained expression on his face, but from injury or embarrassment, Jerry couldn’t tell.

  Jerry jerked his head up, and he locked his eyes on the woman, who was looking down at them with sneering disapproval. “For your information, madam,” he snarled, rising to his feet. “This is my partner, who is injured. And I suggest you move along and mind your own business before I make you my business.” He flashed his badge in her face.

  She dropped her jaw in a shocked little O of surprise and grabbed the man by the arm, hustling him past into the waiting area.

  When he turned back to Flynn, his eyes were open, and he smiled weakly. “Go get ’em, Tiger,” he said, so quietly Jerry almost missed it.

  “Come on,” Jerry said fiercely, hauling Flynn to his feet. There was a long, still moment in which Flynn stared at him with a morass of complicated emotions on his face. Jerry noted that his eyes were a clear, greenish brown with a gray ring around the iris. Hazel, his brain supplied. Flynn’s arm trembled beneath his hand. Against his better judgment, he decided to take Flynn back to the car. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Once they were in the car with the world shut out around them once more, Jerry sat tapping his fingers on the steering wheel a moment before he spoke.

  “You want to tell me wha
t’s going on?” he asked quietly when Flynn made no move to speak.

  Flynn folded his hands into his armpits and rocked back and forth in the seat slightly as though he were cold. Jerry was tempted to reach out and touch his forehead to see if he was feverish, but Flynn jerked as though he’d been burned, even though Jerry had not moved.

  The silence stretched, and then Flynn said, “I can hear people’s thoughts now.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jerry said. Uh-oh.

  “I knew you’d say that!” Flynn snapped, pointing a finger at Jerry before hunching down in his seat again. “And no, electrocution doesn’t cause schizophrenia. That device…. When I touched it, I felt this incredible surge of power….”

  “That would be the electrocution part,” Jerry said. Though the thought of schizophrenia had crossed his mind.

  “Okay, you know what? I don’t need this. Never mind.” Flynn unbuckled his seat belt and started to get out of the car.

  “No, wait, wait, I’m sorry.” Jerry took a deep breath. He reached out a hand, only to let it fall when Flynn reared back from it. “You have to admit, it’s a bit far-fetched. Like something out of Star Trek.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s real.” Flynn began to thump his forehead with a fist again, and this time Jerry did reach out to stop him.

  Headlights of a passing car illuminated the interior of the car briefly, and Jerry could see the genuine distress on Flynn’s face. Whatever was going on, Flynn certainly believed he was hearing people’s thoughts.

  “I can prove it,” Flynn said as Jerry released his fist. “Think of something totally offbeat, and I’ll tell you what you’re thinking.”

  “Okay….” Jerry frowned and then snapped his fingers. “Got it. You tell me….”

  He leaned back in his seat as Flynn lunged into his space. “I am not,” Flynn said, one hand on the steering wheel as he crowded Jerry, his eyes angry and intense, “part elf.”

  “Oh, fuck me,” Jerry breathed out.

  “I’m not doing that either,” Flynn said as he pushed himself back into his seat. He fingered one ear. “They’re not that pointy, you know.”

  Jerry numbly put the key in the ignition and started the engine.

  TURNING the key in the lock with an armload of groceries wasn’t easy, and Jerry found himself thinking what good was it to have a telepath living at his place if he couldn’t be bothered to get his ass off the couch and help a guy out in situations like this?

  He almost fell into the apartment when the door opened suddenly, and he got an excellent view of Flynn walking back to the couch, clad only in maroon briefs, a threadbare white T-shirt, and athletic socks. Who’d have thought such a lean guy would have such a sweet, tight ass? The way the muscles bunched and flexed as he moved was mesmerizing. It must be from all those years of downhill skiing.

  “Stop ogling my ass,” Flynn said as he flopped down on the couch and picked up the remote. He fell back into staring at the television, where several incredibly anorexic-looking women were squealing about receiving Tyra Mail. Jerry toed his shoes off and adjusted his grip on the bags, mentally giving himself a dopeslap as he swung the door shut with his foot.

  “Don’t pretend you never watch this show. I know better,” Flynn said as he reached into a half-eaten bowl of popcorn and grabbed a fistful. He tossed it in his mouth a few pieces at a time, staring at the screen. Jerry felt a moment of gratitude that Flynn had chosen to ignore the ass-admiration thing after just the one comment and reminded himself that he had to watch what he was thinking. He couldn’t help but shoot a worried look in Flynn’s direction as he carried the groceries into the kitchen. He looked as though he’d been on the couch ever since Jerry had left that morning.

  “I’m not a Desperate Housewife!” he called out to Jerry’s retreating back.

  Jerry took his time putting away the groceries. They’d had to give up on the idea of Flynn going in to work that morning. Just going down to the street had made him start to hyperventilate. He could handle one or two people at a time, but crowds were almost overwhelming. Until they figured out how to get a handle on what had happened to him, it was best that he called in sick. It had been bad enough last night, with Flynn dropping catty little statements that revealed just how much he could pick up on Jerry’s thoughts.

  “You think I like this?” Flynn had snapped at him at one point. “I’m a freak. No, I do not want to know your deep, dark secrets. I couldn’t care less that you’re gay. I’m not looking to steal information from your head. Christ, I’m never going to be able to go near anyone ever again!”

  Before Jerry could stop himself, his brain had insidiously stated, “No, it will become just one more weapon in your little arsenal for manipulating people.”

  Flynn had stopped speaking to him after that, despite his attempt at an apology.

  It had been Jerry’s plan to go to the museum that morning, talk to Ms. Marsden, and get some more information on the artifact, but on his arrival at the office, he’d been greeted by the news that Ms. Marsden had been found dead in the cataloging room by the morning staff. Posed under a glass display case, like Snow White.

  Jerry had called Flynn to let him know, and after talking him out of coming down to the Weir, he’d spent the morning at the museum. The FBI and the SFPD, with the bureau taking lead, were jointly handling the case. Jerry wasn’t sure how long he could cover for Flynn. They had to come up with a means of finding him some functionality or else explain themselves to Harding, and that was a conversation that Jerry wasn’t looking forward to having with his superior.

  In the kitchen he pulled out a large stockpot, added several containers of chicken broth, and placed it on the stove to come to a boil. He took off his jacket and laid it carefully over a chair, rolling up his sleeves so he could chop up the vegetables needed for the soup. Mushrooms, red peppers, and spinach all took their places in small bowls to be added when the time was right. Opening the refrigerator, he took out a small container of precooked rice and a package of chicken as well. He was busy cubing the chicken when Flynn appeared in the doorway.

  “I’m telepathic,” he said in a sulky tone. “I don’t have the fucking flu.”

  Jerry continued to cut the chicken. “I know that,” he said quietly. “I just don’t have anything else to offer.”

  “You don’t have to hide in the kitchen. You could have changed clothes first. I know you like to do that.”

  There didn’t seem to be any answer to that one. Oliver came trotting into the room past Flynn’s feet, sitting down in front of his mat and giving Flynn a baleful glare.

  “You told your cat he could puke in my shoes,” Flynn said with some irritation, glaring back at the cat.

  “You can understand the cat?” Jerry set down the knife and turned to face him. “Oh my God, do you know what that means?”

  “It means I’m Dr. Fucking Doolittle,” Flynn spat, shooting daggers with his eyes at the cat. Oliver eyed him with disdain. He yawned, showing sharp white teeth and a curling tongue. It was a “fuck you’” expression if he’d ever seen one on a cat, and Jerry had to stifle a snicker.

  It was no good. A snort forced its way out of Jerry’s mouth. He turned back to prepping the chicken, trying very hard not to laugh even harder when Flynn shot him an incredulous stare.

  “Oh, come on,” Jerry said when Flynn continued to glare at him. “You have to admit, it’s a little funny.”

  One of those little half smiles quirked at the corner of Flynn’s mouth before it disappeared. “Yeah, if I can’t go back to work at my day job, I can always make a fortune as a pet psychic.”

  “You’d be a real hit on those late-night infomercials. So, what does Oliver want? Besides food, that is.” Jerry set aside the chicken and washed his hands, leaving the dishtowel over one shoulder as he opened the cabinet for a can of cat food.

  “He wishes you would pet him more.”

  “What?” Jerry said, pausing in the act of forking the can into the dish. He w
aved the fork at Flynn. “He bites me when I pet him!”

  Flynn shrugged. “He can’t help it. He wants to be petted, but he wants to be left alone too.”

  Not like anyone else I know, Jerry thought and then watched Flynn’s expression change. Hey, at least it’s not your thoughts hemorrhaging all over the place. It could be worse. Flynn’s face blanched suddenly. Jerry rinsed the empty can and placed it in the bin, cocking an eyebrow at him in passing. He lifted the lid on the stockpot to see if it had come to a boil yet.

  After a beat Flynn said, “Do you really equate cooking meals with foreplay? Because if that’s—”

  “Okay, you know what?” Jerry snapped, whisking the towel off his shoulder and tossing it down on the counter. “We need to talk about setting some boundaries.”

  “That works both ways, buddy.” Flynn said. His features were tight, narrow.

  “Look, you should know by now that I can’t help what I think. The thoughts are there. They just run through my head all the time, okay? Thinking something is not the same as acting on it.”

  “Good thing, or you’d be out of a job by now.” Flynn leaned in the doorway, propped up by one shoulder, socked feet crossed at the ankles. He was unshaven and had the suggestion of bags under his eyes. He looked disheveled and disreputable and distinctly…. Jerry clamped down on that thought. It didn’t help that his briefs left nothing to the imagination. Flynn’s eyes widened, and he looked suddenly uncomfortable, straightening slowly. Jerry shot him a covert look, wondering why Flynn seemed more ill at ease now than he had when he was nearly naked the other morning, and then it hit him.

  Flynn was turned on. He was turned on, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  The broth began to boil, and Jerry tipped the cutting board full of chicken over the stockpot, using the rising steam to cover the heat of his own confusion until he realized that he couldn’t use anything to camouflage his feelings around a psychic.

  “Look,” he said at last, setting down the board and wiping his hands on the towel. “I’ve been giving this some thought all day. This could be a good thing, okay? Think about it—a telepathic federal agent? Think of all the cases you could solve.” He took a package of tortellini out of the fridge and slit it open with a knife.