Re-Ignition

by A. R. Moler

  “I’m Lt. McArdle. If you could give us as much information as possible about Dennis Webb, we’re sort of on a timetable,” said Sheila.

  “I’ve probably already told you more than I should, given the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing. But I don’t think I could live with myself if I could have told you something that would have saved the lives of the hostages and didn’t,” said Currin. The doctor had a positively agonized expression on his face.

  “What can you tell us about Webb’s mental state? I know telling a patient he’s going to die has to be a rough blow. How did he take it?” asked Sheila.

  “Not well. I’ve seen some people rage, and some cry, and some plead for hope. He kind of started out in the last category. Webb has a history of clinical depression and borderline schizophrenia. His behavior did lead me to consider whether he might be suicidal. But then the last time I saw him, four days ago, he seemed slightly more accepting of his prognosis,” the doctor explained.

  Griff rubbed his hands down over his face. This was sounding worse and worse. Terminal, mentally unstable, and armed. Not a good combination. Griff stared at the ceiling for a moment, but all he saw was a vision of Sean lying dead in a pool of blood on a tile floor. The image tightened his chest and made it hard to draw a full breath. He blew out a long breath, hoping for composure and some luck.

  Griff glanced at Sheila. She gave him a look of tension. “Your call,” she said. “Do you think the sniper should take the shot if it presents?”

  Griff clenched his teeth and grimaced, glancing up at the SWAT commander. Czuba’s expression was calm, but solemn.

  “Let me talk to Webb. Let Dr. Currin talk to him too, but if I hold up two fingers, it’s a go,” said Griff. The commander nodded. Griff pushed the microphone button.

  “Dennis, Dr. Currin is just getting to the hospital now,” he lied a little. “It would be a show of good faith if you let Darla and Jason go.”

  “No! Lemme talk to him first!” Griff could hear a distinct edge in the man’s voice.

  “He’ll be here in just a moment,” said Griff. He stood up and motioned for the doctor to sit down in front of the microphone as he turned it off. “Do your best to keep him calm. See if there’s something you can offer him, other than yourself, that will convince him to let at least some of those four people go.” The doctor nodded and sat.

  “Dennis, this is Dr. Currin. How can I help you?” said Alan as his fingers bunched the fabric of his slacks.

  “Get me into the fucking experimental program! Give me a shot at staying alive!” snapped Webb. Along the curtain edge, the video showed that Webb appeared to be pacing. Little glimpses of his shoulder appeared.

  “We can certainly reapply. There should be a new test group starting soon.”

  “Soon. I want now! Call them tonight, you bastard. I swear I’ll kill these people. I want a chance to not die!”

  “Dennis, you’ll have to give me a couple hours to get hold of the right people,” Currin said carefully. Griff could tell from the doctor’s facial expression that he was promising something impossible.

  “No! You’ll do it right now! I am not going to wait while you fuck around! I want you in here where I can see you! So I know you’re not just jerking me around!” Webb’s voice was approaching a shriek.

  Griff picked up the microphone. “Mr. Webb, Dennis, please calm down. We are doing our best to give you what you want, within reason. We can’t let Dr. Currin in there. You should know that. Give me a little time to call these people.”

  “No! Fuck you! I want to watch him call them! You want me to kill these people, don’t you!?” Webb’s voice was almost incoherent with rage. Griff heard the voice of the sniper over his headset.

  “This is Red Six. Subject is actively waving the gun in the direction of the hostages.”

  Griff pressed his lips together, held his breath, and lifted two fingers for Czuba to see. The man nodded and murmured the order into his headset. For the next several seconds, no one seemed to breathe.

  There was the sharp crack of a single shot, and the sounds of the entire rest of the SWAT team swarming to secure the scene. Sheila quickly left the van, along with the SWAT commander. Griff trailed behind at a slower pace, entering the hospital ER and praying silently that the shot had hit only Webb.

  There was restrained chaos within. Webb was being confirmed dead, and there were officers and medical personnel busy doing damage control. Griff caught a glimpse of Sean. The young pediatrician was being led away from the main area of the ER. He had blood in his hair and trailing down the side of his face. It had soaked part of the shoulder of his shirt. But under the guidance of what appeared to be a pair of doctors, he was vertical and walking, if rather unsteadily. Griff finally drew a full breath. At least Sean was still alive, and it didn’t appear he had any life-threatening injuries.

  Sheila McArdle and Captain Czuba pulled Griff aside a moment later for what turned out to be nearly twenty minutes of debriefing and analysis. Their joint conclusion— it had been a justified call. If they hadn’t neutralized Webb, he was showing all the signs that he was far too close to pulling the trigger on his hostages. There would, of course, be a full inquiry and hearing. Those sorts of things always went with the tough decisions that resulted in loss of life. The goal was always to get everyone out alive. Sometimes it didn’t work out that way.

  Griff finally broke away from the conference and went in search of Sean. He was told the injured doctor had been taken to the doctor’s lounge, since he had showed visible distress when originally led to a different ER bay. Well, shit, no wonder, Griff thought. You try walking back into a nearly identical room after being held hostage for the past hour, see how you feel about it. Griff felt a surge of anger grab him and quickly choked it down. The staff was doing the best they could.

  Sean was seated at a table in the lounge as another physician put sutures in the gash in his scalp. His hands were gripping the edge of the chair, white-knuckled. Griff walked toward him. He wondered if Sean was in pain, but the motions of the physician putting in the sutures seemed to have nothing to do with the restless clenching of Sean’s hands. It must be pure stress, Griff decided.

  Sean finally registered who was approaching him. A flicker of wide-eyed relief flitted across his features.

  “How bad?” asked Griff, gesturing toward the wound.

  “Ask Dave. I can’t exactly see what he’s doing,” said Sean. His hands left the chair edge as if he were about to reach out to Griff, but then he balled them into tight fists in his lap.

  “Looks like it’s going be nine stitches when I’m done. Said he hit a cabinet door,” commented Dave as he continued his actions.

  “Tell me what happened,” said Griff. He watched Sean’s face contort in a momentary flash of terror-filled memory, and his own hand tightened around the grip of his crutch. Griff wanted to drop it on the floor and pull his lover into his arms, but that just wasn’t going to happen here or now.

  “I was waiting with Jason and his mom, Darla. The kid with the asthma attack. He was improving, and we were discussing sending him home in an hour or so. Then this guy just sort of storms in and starts yelling. I figured he was some drunk that had shown up in the ER looking for something to help him with his DTs. But he grabbed Jamie by the hair, and so I tried to grab him. He jammed a gun in my chest and shoved me back so hard I fell against a cabinet that had gotten left open when Jason was brought in. I guessed I was so freaked by the gun, I didn’t even try to catch myself. Gashed my head open and left me kind of stunned. Still hurts like hell. Christ. He scared the shit out of me. After a while he started talking to one of those robot camera things the police use. That was you, wasn’t it?” asked Sean.

  Griff nodded. “I came by to meet you for coffee, and I got sort of pulled into it. Past experience and all that.”

  “He really started wigging out when, what’s-his-name, Currin? Started talking. Pacing and waving the gun. Then I guess the police
shot him, and I think my heart about stopped ‘cause at first I thought he had shot Jamie.” Sean drew a shaky breath and laid a tense hand flat on the table in front of him. His face had paled noticeably with his story, and he swayed a little in the chair.

  This time Griff did reach out and lay a hand on Sean’s shoulder. His thumb brushed along the side of Sean’s neck, an almost-caress. It was as much as he dared.

  “Hey, Avery, are you gonna pass out on me?” queried Dave. He bent down a little and scrutinized his patient. Sean’s lips had gone a bloodless white. “Yep, you’re about to go. Let’s get you horizontal before you fall out of the chair.”

  Griff and Dave hauled Sean up out of the chair and two steps away to the sofa against the wall. Sean sank shakily to the couch and was tipped back to lie flat; his face was ashen.

  “Just lie still and let me finish the sutures. Breathe and try to relax,” said Dave.

  Griff watched from the foot of the sofa. He crossed his arms as he waited for the doctor to finish his job. A long stripe of Sean’s hair had been shaved away to give better access to the wound. Griff thought he could count seven already-completed sutures. It’s just a cut, a fairly bad one, but just scalp wound, he told himself. It could have been so very much worse. It could have been a gunshot.

  As Dave was finishing and applying a dressing, some of the color returned to Sean’s face, but he still looked sort of pale. He sat up slowly and glanced at Griff, who was still standing at the foot of the sofa. Sean had a pleading look in his eyes, but was silent.

  “Can I take him home?” asked Griff.

  “Yeah, he’s good to go. You have family, Sean?” said Dave.

  Sean shook his head. “Yeah, but they’re not available right now,” he said softly.

  “You really need someone to stay with you tonight. You may have slight concussion, it’s hard to tell for sure. You know the routine.”

  “I’ll make sure someone stays with him,” said Griff. He held out a hand to help Sean up off the sofa. Sean’s fingers felt chilly and damp. He was obviously still sort of in shock over the whole experience. There was no way Griff was letting Sean out his sight for the next twenty-four hours. No way Sean was going to be alone.

  The drive back to Sean’s apartment was silent. Sean sat stiffly in the passenger seat, tension radiating, hands fussing nervously with fabric of his shirt. Griff glanced at him frequently, gently laying a hand on his lover’s leg at times. He had seen the progression far too many times in his life. The combination of shock and the pretense at normality was generally only the first phase. The storm was coming.

  Inside the apartment, Griff pushed the door closed. Sean was standing motionless, facing into the room. Griff ran a light hand down his back. “Relax, you’re safe,” Griff said.

  An instant later, he found himself pinned against the wall. Sean’s mouth was covering his, devouring him, hands roughly yanking his shirt loose from his belt. He could feel Sean grinding against his hip, his rapidly hardening length jammed against Griff’s body.

  And Griff finally allowed himself to acknowledge the entirety of the fear he had experienced at the possibility of his lover’s death. They were both tearing at each other’s clothes. A button went flying and shirts were flung to the floor. Griff ran his hands along Sean’s body, down over sleek, tense muscles, subconsciously reassuring himself that his lover was still basically in one piece. He had to steady himself, a hand on Sean’s arm, as his pants were jammed toward his ankles. Griff’s erection bobbed free. Sean’s naked body was plastered against his, hard cock against his, rubbing in exquisite friction.

  “Want you now,” Sean growled against the side of his face. They were the first words Sean had said in nearly half an hour.

  “God, yes,” was all Griff managed to choke out. Then Sean pulled away and darted toward the bedroom.

  He returned a moment later, a tube in hand. Sean put a foot on Griff’s pants where they were crumpled around his ankles, so Griff could step free, then spun him to face the wall. Griff could feel slick fingers stroking between his butt cheeks, circling his entrance. He spread his feet, bracing himself against the wall. One finger pressed into him. He pushed back a little, and the tip hit his prostate, causing his whole body to twitch in pleasure. Two fingers, pushing, stroking, twisting. Sean had one arm wrapped around his torso, holding him tightly.

  Then Griff could feel Sean pressing into him, one long stroke that caught him almost unprepared for the intensity. Griff hissed out a breath, a mixture of discomfort and ecstasy tangled together. In another second Sean was pounding into him, every thrust hitting that perfect spot as Sean bent him forward a little. Hot, moist gasps blew against the nape of Griff’s neck, then teeth grazed the place where his neck and shoulder met.

  Sean’s other hand fumbled around to the front of his body, closing around his cock, stroking him. Oh, God. Griff’s body let loose a messy, pulsing splatter on the wall and his lover’s hand as the orgasm tore through him.

  Pressed against Griff’s back, Sean gave a guttural half scream as he came inside his partner. Struggling for breath, legs trembling, they sank to the floor amidst a litter of clothing.

  Waiting for his pulse to calm enough to restore his hearing, Griff felt a soft jerking motion from Sean’s body, huddled against his shoulder blades. Griff twisted to face him. Sean was sobbing, hard, half-suppressed chokes of tears. He pulled Sean tightly into his arms and held him for a long time, whispering reassuring little nothings. Eventually, the tears dwindled to hiccupping gulps and sniffles.

  “Sorry,” Sean whispered.

  “It’s okay. You had a really shitty day.”

  “I didn’t… hurt you?” Sean looked up at him, tears still shining in red-rimmed eyes.

  “Only for, like, two seconds.” Griff smiled a little and kissed him softly.

  Sean tensed a bit in his arms. “Oh fuck, I forgot… We didn’t use…” Sean looked stricken.

  “I know. I did sort of realize that at some point. Well, sort of.”

  “I’ll get tested. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Sean buried his face into Griff’s shoulder.

  “Hey, it takes two. We’ll be okay. We’ll get tested if you want, but really, I think we’ll be just fine,” whispered Griff.

  “Why didn’t I remember? Jesus, I can’t believe I was so out of control. It felt like… I don’t know… starving or something.” Sean tilted his head sideways, laying his ear over Griff’s heart.

  Griff stroked one thumb along the edge of Sean’s jaw, tracing the line down from his ear to his chin, brushing across his goatee.

  “It’s a stress response. Some people hit something. Some people cry. Some people screw their brains out. It’s a way to prove to yourself that you’re still alive,” responded Griff.

  “I guess I should be glad I only did two out of three and didn’t punch you or something.”

  “If you had, I’d have understood.”

  Sean huffed out a sigh in his arms.

  “Come on, shower and bed. We could both use some sleep.”

  § § § §

  Morning sunlight slanted through a narrow slit in the curtains. Griff lay on his side, elbow bent, head propped on his hand, watching Sean sleep. Tangled blond curls framed Sean’s face, lips parted in sleep, beard and moustache fringing divinely gorgeous lips.

  A hard knot of angst clutched at Griff’s chest. He had cared about a few people in the past, but it had never felt quite like this. To know that some deranged gunman had held Sean hostage, had hurt him, could have killed him… It felt like the one person who was helping Griff begin to piece his life back together had nearly been torn away. And it hurt, it hurt like hell. Was that love? He wasn’t sure.

  The muffled sound of his cell phone ringing jarred him out of his reverie. Griff hung over the edge of the bed and fished the phone out of his pants pocket.

  “Rieckert,” he answered.

  “Hey, it’s Sheila. How’re you holding up after all the crap yesterday?”
<
br />   “Passable.”

  “Good. How’d you like to do some consultant work? Let me pick your brain on a regular basis,” she said.

  “I—” The idea blindsided him.

  “I ended up talking to your ex-boss from the FBI. I thought you were on temporary leave, but he told me it was permanent. But anyway, even if you were in a wheelchair, I could use your knowledge.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll give you a call in a couple days, after the IA stuff is done.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you know.”

  After he hung up, he lay staring at the ceiling. New job? New lover? In some weird way, after everything that had happened in the past year, the powers that be had finally decided to smile on him.

  About the Author

  A.R. Moler is a chemistry professor at a community college with interests that range from science fiction, to quantum physics, and traveling in the UK.

  You can find A.R. on the internet at:

  http://www.armoler.com

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