CHAPTER 18. HOME
“HANDS UP!”
“DON’T MOVE!”
More gunshots. Screams.
I hear them through the haze, through the ringing in my ears—glass shattering, something crashing, footsteps pounding, someone running. But I can’t see anything.
Xavier is the only thing on my mind. I try to get up, but pain explodes through my back and chest—I can’t even draw a full breath.
The darkness around me starts to lift, thinning into dim light. That’s when I see a dark figure above me, hands clawing desperately at my shirt, trying to get it off.
“Newt, wake up. Please…”
I know that voice instantly, and my heart skips a beat. He’s alive. He’s fucking alive—and I think I am too. The pain is unbearable, but I’m still here.
“Newt! Breathe… Please—” His voice sounds distant, fading. “Call the medics!”
“Xavier,” I mutter, catching his hands, “I’m fine, I’m fine… I’m wearing a bullet vest.”
“What?” He lets out a ragged breath, like he’s just come up for air. “A vest?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Willand made me wear it. I think it caught all the bullets.”
“Jesus, Newt,” Xavier murmurs, relief flooding his voice as he leans in to hug me. I feel his lips press kisses to my cheeks, my chin, my mouth.
“I’m okay,” I repeat, trying to sit up.
“Don’t move,” Xavier says, placing a hand on my chest. “Please lie down. The medics will be here soon.”
“Where’s Bernard?” I ask, feeling his fingers brush gently along my cheek.
“Bernard’s dead,” Xavier says. “Willand’s here.”
I lie still for a moment, the pain washing over me.
“Why is it so dark?” I ask.
“The police cut the lights before breaking in. Don’t get up.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling a wave of relief spread through my chest. So I’m not going blind. That’s good.
“Xavier,” I call, and he leans closer.
“Yes?” he says, his voice tight with worry.
“I love you,” I say—and hear him let out a sharp sigh.
“Shut up,” he mutters, then yells off to the side, “Willand! Get the paramedics, now!”
That’s when I close my eyes and let the weight of everything I’ve been holding back finally take me under.
***
For a long, long time, I float in darkness—voices swarm faintly around me, muffled and distant.
My thoughts are a tangled mess of fragments and memories, blurred and confusing.
Then I wake up in a bright white room, surrounded by unfamiliar faces—doctors, nurses, people I don’t know.
One of them tells me they’ve given me painkillers, and that I’ll be sleeping for a while.
“Where’s Xavier?” I ask, panic rising fast, tightening my chest.
“Is that your partner, Mr. Doherty?” the doctor asks, and I nod.
“He’s outside. Just rest for now. You’re going to be fine.”
“Okay,” I whisper, and close my eyes as exhaustion and pain rise up to swallow me.
***
When I open my eyes again, I’m alone in the hospital room. The lights are dimmed, machines beep softly around me, and a deep blue pre-dawn glow seeps through the windows.
How long was I out?
It looks like morning already—so I must’ve been here all evening and night.
For a few long minutes, I just lie still, trying to piece together what happened. I think about Xavier. About Nimoy. I try to remember anything after I was shot, but it’s all a blur. Disjointed images flash through my head—
The paramedics lifting me onto a stretcher.
Carrying me out of the café.
Xavier beside me in the ambulance, holding my hand, not letting go.
I roll onto my side—surprisingly pain-free, probably thanks to the meds. I’m in a hospital robe, covered by a thin blanket. I glance around, looking for my things, but my phone’s nowhere in sight.
I reach for the red nurse call button and press it.
A few moments later, a nurse enters the room. She looks to be in her fifties, dark-haired, with a warm smile.
“Mr. Doherty, you’re awake,” she says softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” I say. “How am I doing?”
She smiles at the question. “You’re doing great, sir. The vest caught all the bullets—none of your ribs are broken, which is excellent news. Everything looks good.”
“That’s great,” I say. “When can I go home?”
“The doctor will decide in the morning,” she replies. “He’ll be in at eight-thirty. You also have a blood test and a head MRI scheduled for eight.”
“A head MRI?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Pretty sure my head’s fine.”
“Your partner, sir—Mr. Ormond—told us you had two possible concussions over the past couple of days, so the doctor scheduled a scan just in case.”
“Alright.” I can’t help but smirk at that, my heart picking up pace. “Is he here?” I ask. “Mr. Ormond.”
“No,” the nurse says. “Visiting hours don’t start until nine, so we sent him home. Along with everyone else who came to see you.”
“Everyone else?” I repeat, a little confused.
“Your sister, sir. And two other gentlemen—one from the police, and the other… I’m not sure who he is.”
“Okay, thank you,” I say. “Do you happen to know where my phone is?”
“Of course,” she says, walking over to the table in the far corner. I watch as she unplugs my phone from the charger and brings it over.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.” She smiles. “Do you need anything?”
“No, thank you, though,” I say—already wishing she’d leave so I can check my messages.
“Great,” she replies. “Just call if you need anything.” And with that, she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
I glance at the notification panel on my screen: five missed calls from Ernest Ormond, three from an unknown number, six messages from Monica—and twenty unread messages from Xavier.
My heart flips with anxiety. God, I hope he’s okay.
I immediately open Xavier’s messages. It’s five in the morning now, and the first one was sent five hours ago.
Xavier: Let me know when you wake up, please.
My heart flips again—this time with relief—but I’m already scrolling to the next.
The second one came three minutes later:
Xavier: They didn’t allow me to stay in the hospital overnight, said I’m not immediate family.
And then, right after:
Xavier: We need to get married.
I blink, staring at the screen, my heart pounding so loud the heart monitor starts beeping faster. I really hope the nurse doesn’t come rushing in, thinking I’m having a heart attack or something.
My eyes are fixed on that one line—We need to get married. I reread it three times, not even trying to pretend I’m calm. But then I see there’s more. A lot more.
I scroll down.
Xavier: We’re all over the news
Xavier: Hundreds of our fans showed up at the hospital
Xavier: And dozens of journalists
Xavier: Police came and shooed them all away, so now they’re ambushing me on Hickory
Xavier: I think we need to go to your mom’s—there’s a crowd basically laying siege to our apartment
Xavier: Willand came to the hospital, by the way. He tried to feed me crackers
Xavier: I ate one, but I felt too sick
Xavier: Also, Crowley was acting strange
Xavier: She asked the doctors to let me stay overnight
Xavier: They refused, but still. I don’t know what’s gotten into her
Xavier: Your sister called. Then she showed up at the hospital
Xavier: How did she even get my number? Please tell me she didn’t talk to Ernest
Then there’s a two-hour silence before the next message.
Xavier: I miss you
I sit up, my chest tight, my pulse loud in my ears. A week ago, I wouldn’t have believed Xavier was capable of saying something like that—even over text. But these past few days, the stakes have been so high, I think we crossed a line that brought us closer.
I read the next messages, my eyes stinging.
Xavier: I can’t sleep without you anymore
Xavier: I keep thinking—what if the doctors were wrong and you really got shot
Xavier: I won’t be able to sleep until I know you’re okay
And then the last message, sent fifty minutes ago:
Xavier: I love you
Shit—I’m crying now, tears slipping down my cheeks. I don’t know if it’s the drugs they gave me or the fact that I could’ve lost him yesterday, but my chest aches like something’s breaking. I wipe my eyes and type a message through the blur.
Me: I just woke up, Xavier. I’m great, I’m fine!
Me: Are you alright?
I figured he was still awake, but it still surprises me when the reply comes almost instantly.
Xavier: Yes, I’m fine
Xavier: How are you feeling?
Considering how worried he’s been, I’d lie even if I felt terrible—but truthfully, I’m doing pretty well for someone who got shot three times last night.
Me: Great, I’m fine!
I pause for a second, then type the next one.
Me: I miss you
It’s bold, maybe, but after what he texted me, I don’t think playing it safe makes much sense.
Xavier: I miss you too
Xavier: What does the doctor say?
I smile stupidly at the screen before answering.
Me: They need to run some tests this morning, but I think I’m fine
Me: I really want to go home
There’s a long pause, and I start to wonder if Xavier’s fallen asleep. I lie there, tapping my screen to keep it from locking, waiting for his reply. After ten minutes, my eyes start to close—sleep creeping in.
That’s when my phone buzzes.
I blink awake to see an incoming call from Xavier.
“Xavier?” I answer, heart already racing, spinning through a dozen worst-case scenarios. Maybe he’s sick. Maybe Bernard escaped police custody and broke into our apartment—this time to kill him.
“Hi,” Xavier says—and his voice sounds perfectly normal. Maybe just a little anxious.
“Hi,” I say. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he says, and I hear some background noise on his end.
“Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Oh,” I say, my face instantly flushing, heat pooling low in my belly. God, Xavier saying things like that is the most arousing thing ever.
“Hi,” I repeat, now completely flustered.
“Hi,” Xavier echoes—and now we’re both chuckling.
I hear birds chirping faintly in the background. Then a blunt thud, and silence.
“What was that noise?” I ask, just to fill the pause.
“Nothing,” Xavier says a little too quickly. “How’s your back?”