Chapter 5
Beckett wouldn’t say he was losing his mind to boredom—mostly because of his having had extensive experience losing his mind on a number of previous occasions, so he was not inclined to use that expression lightly. Nevertheless, he felt as if he was skating dangerously close to reaching that point.
They’d been on this stupid stakeout for three days now.
The excitement had worn off not long after the first two hours of fluffing sleeping bags followed by giving Hayes a blow job.
It was all downhill after that. At this point, he was more than ready to walk out and tell Agent Cho to stuff her missing thieves and millions where the sun didn’t shine.
He didn’t—of course. Mainly because Hayes wouldn’t let him and because, technically, he really did like his job.
They weren’t on thin ice with Gill—but they weren’t exactly in his good graces either.
There had been several incidents in recent months that involved emergency rescues by their boss, unfortunately.
While Gill didn’t appear to harbor any resentment towards them afterwards, Beckett figured Gill would tire of dealing with them eventually.
Well, maybe not Hayes, but Beckett was another story.
He loved blowing shit up. His personal philosophy in life was that causing chaos was perfectly acceptable as long as the job got done and no one got hurt.
However, when Gill had to send his husband Riley to New York City to save their sorry asses—well, there was little doubt that Gill’s gauge of Beckett’s inherent value moved from “worth-the-pain-and-aggravation” towards “maybe-I-oughta-kick-their-asses-to-the-curb.” So, in order to avoid fucking with where his ass was currently positioned on Gill’s gauge, he vowed to remain optimistic while facing another night in this God-forsaken place.
On a lighter note, at least he was getting some decent sleep out of this deal.
Well acquainted with sleeping on rocks and dirt in government-issued sleeping bags, he found these rough conditions almost comforting.
Hayes, on the other hand, apparently did not share this perspective.
He hadn’t slept well at all. He hadn’t whined or moaned about it, but then again he wasn’t one to complain about much of anything.
Well, except for Beckett’s reckless disregard for his health and safety whenever they were in the field.
And also his tendency to leave his unwashed dishes in the sink.
But, other than those two things, Hayes could never be accused of being a Wendy Whiner.
“What’d you want to have for dinner?” Beckett asked while rifling through what was left in their box of field rations.
“We got—burrito bowls, or—this one says chicken balls, but I’m betting it’s a typo—ain’t no way they’re serving actual chicken balls, right?
” He held up the mud brown, plastic-wrapped mystery meal with a skeptical frown.
But Hayes didn’t answer him as he stared fixedly at his service weapon like it had suddenly turned bright pink and sprouted wings.
“Did you forget how to load it or something?” Beckett teased, as he wondered why Hayes was so focused on his weapon.
Hayes finally looked up, realizing that Beckett had been talking to him. There was something dark in his expression—not entirely unfamiliar to Beckett, just a look that he hadn’t seen recently.
“Everything alright?” Beckett asked, becoming concerned. It was usually Beckett’s job to lose his sanity and go berserk, but Hayes had also seen combat in several war zones—so he was certainly entitled to lose his shit too. But why he was going off the rails here and now was baffling.
“Fine,” Hayes replied with a sharp nod.
“Try again, Nancy,” Beckett said with a snort. “Maybe come up with more than one word next time—really sell it!” He dropped the unopened MRE back on the table, parked his ass on the edge, and crossed his arms while giving Hayes a searching look.
“It’s nothing—just reflecting,” he responded vaguely with a dismissive shrug.
A year ago—hell, just six months ago—Beckett might have let the subject drop.
They’d worked well together from the start, respecting each other’s privacy and not meddling in each other’s affairs.
But, if the past three months of enjoying their committed relationship had taught Beckett anything at all, it was that a romantic relationship could not continue to operate under those conditions.
Try as they may, the moment they’d decided to call each other more than work partners, they’d forfeited that right to privacy.
Keeping shit inside didn’t just fuck with their minds—it was dangerous in other ways as well, which could be attested to by the barely-healed scar on Hayes’ sternum from a poorly aimed shot.
Beckett would happily give Hayes all the space and time he needed to brood and bitch to his heart’s content, but he needed Hayes to provide the reason for it first.
“Never heard of that—what’s it entail?” Beckett hoped that some gentle prodding would get the ball rolling and open the lines of communication. Hayes smiled, albeit reluctantly. It did funny things to Beckett’s gut when he did that.
“Just thinking about how my life might have turned out if I had never picked up a gun.”
While Beckett was glad he’d spoken up, this comment really threw him for a loop.
“What would it have changed? Thought you became a SEAL because of your father and all that.”
Hayes nodded while continuing to stare at his gun.
“Sure—but I trained as a SEAL because I knew I could shoot,” Hayes confessed with a humorless smile. “Never actually thought about going that route until my uncle handed me a gun one day and told me to aim at a row of tin cans he’d stacked on a log.”
Normally, Beckett would have entertained this train of thought just for the hell of it.
But this was the second time recently that Hayes had broached the topic of their job as if he was having doubts or regrets.
That was very disturbing. He was entirely confident that their relationship was based on a whole lot more than their partnership on the job, but if Hayes walked away from this—if he decided to reinvent himself, would there still be a place in Hayes’ life for Beckett’s chaos?
Or would Hayes grow to resent him? Would Beckett be forced to follow him to keep him in his life? He felt a weird twinge near his heart.
“Okay, but you did pick up the gun, though.” Then Beckett posed a question that was undeniably self-serving. “What’s the use in pondering what could have been?”
Perhaps that was a tad harsher than he’d intended it to be because Hayes frowned briefly before his expression cleared.
“I’m not walking away,” Hayes said, like he was a goddamned mind reader. As usual.
Beckett squirmed inwardly and hastily schooled his features to look entirely unconcerned.
“I know,” Beckett lied instinctively. Neither one was fooled by his blatant efforts to appear indifferent.
With a tired sigh, Hayes set aside his weapon and didn’t reply.
Beckett’s stomach clenched with guilt. Fuck—here he was, pushing for answers, and then forcing Hayes to shut it all down because he felt uncomfortable hearing Hayes’ responses. Resisting his inclination to ignore his guilt, Beckett sat down next to Hayes on his sleeping bag.
“What do you think you’d have done, then? Lawyer? Librarian?” Beckett prodded gently.
Hayes glanced at him uncertainly, studying Beckett’s expression.
Beckett hoped his smile was convincing enough to persuade Hayes to open up to him.
“My mother was a doctor,” Hayes replied with a quick shrug. “Might have gone to med school.”
“Dr. Monroe,” Beckett said, testing it out.
It didn’t have a bad ring to it. In fact, it sounded pretty damned good.
“You’d have been a damned good surgeon,” he said, because he actually believed it.
“Cool, calm, and collected—you’d have had all the nurses swooning,” he added, clucking his tongue in mock reproof.
“That—” Hayes began with a smile, and then it faltered. “That was the plan, I think. Cardiac surgeon—” He raised his right hand, which was noticeably shaking. “Wouldn’t have worked out.”
“You don’t shake when you shoot—probably wouldn’t have shaken holding a scalpel either,” Beckett observed thoughtfully.
“I’m not so sure,” Hayes replied, grimacing.
Beckett waited him out, knowing Hayes sometimes needed some space and time to mull things over.
“I think I stop shaking when I’m holding a gun because it gives me control—whereas you have to already be in control to handle a scalpel.”
And sweet baby Jesus, what was in the nasty-dead-people-air that had Hayes coming up with that jaw-dropping conclusion? The worst part was that Beckett agreed. He knew exactly what Hayes was talking about.
“Think that’s why you’re still doing this?” Beckett gave into the compulsion to ask the question, even if he hated himself for it.
Hayes took a deep breath, pondering that for a minute, then shook his head.
“That’s the part that’s truly shocking. I spent decades chasing control—through guns, then military service, then marksmanship. Just trying to hold onto something long enough that I could feel in control of it.”
“Right—”
“Then I met you, and you took it all away. Just like that. I wasn’t even in control of my shots anymore.
Whatever I shot at—was because of a threat to you, or because you’d told me to,” Hayes confessed with a quick laugh.
“Not a single second of this relationship has felt under control, and—I’m—I’m fine with it. ”
Beckett was stunned, suddenly at a complete loss for words. He just blinked at Hayes—his mind gone blank. Torn between feeling overwhelmed with love and gobsmacked from his admission.
“I think—” he began as he tried to wrap his head around everything Hayes had just said, “that we need some kind of—safe word. Like—a word you say before you’re about to shock the hell out of me.”
“Did I?” Hayes asked, scrutinizing Beckett’s expression.