Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Xavier
I scrub my hands for the fourth time, watching the water run pink, then clear.
The sharp smell of antiseptic soap burns my nostrils as I methodically clean beneath my fingernails, between my fingers, up to my elbows.
The ritual is a familiar one I’ve performed thousands of times, but today it feels different.
Today, I’m washing away more than just blood.
My reflection in the mirror above the sink shows a stranger. Blood spatters my scrubs, my face, even my hair. A small cut above my eyebrow has crusted over. Dark circles beneath my eyes speak of exhaustion beyond physical tiredness.
I shut off the water with my elbow and grab a paper towel, patting my hands dry. The bathroom door opens, and a nurse, Kelly, who helped me with the GSW victim, enters. Her scrubs are as blood-soaked as mine, her face pale with shock.
“Dr. Blane,” she says, voice slightly unsteady. “They’re asking for statements. Police and administration.”
I nod, dropping the paper towel in the trash. “How’s Marissa doing?”
“Still in surgery. Dr. Patel says it’s touch and go, but they’re optimistic.”
Relief flickers through the exhaustion. At least we got her there in time. At least one life might be saved today.
“And the others?” I ask, dreading the answer.
Kelly’s eyes drop. “Two dead on the scene. Three critical but stable. Everyone else has minor injuries or are just in shock.”
Two dead. The knowledge settles heavy in my chest. Two colleagues who came to work this morning never expecting it would be their last day. Two families who will get the worst phone call of their lives.
“You should change,” Kelly says gently, gesturing to my scrubs. “There are clean ones in the locker room. I’ll tell them you’ll be down in ten minutes.”
I nod my thanks, pushing past her into the hallway. The hospital is eerily quiet now, the usual hustle and bustle replaced with hushed voices and the occasional squawk of police radios. Yellow crime scene tape blocks off sections of corridors where just hours ago, people died.
In the locker room, I strip mechanically, stuffing the blood-soaked scrubs into a biohazard bag. The shower beckons, but there’s no time. I settle for wiping myself down with antiseptic wipes before pulling on clean scrubs that feel almost offensively pristine against my skin.
As I’m tying my shoes, the door opens again. I look up, expecting another staff member, but it’s Zach who enters. He’s changed out of his blood-spattered clothes into a clean black t-shirt.
“Hey,” I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
“Hey.” He closes the door behind him, leaning against it. His eyes scan me, checking for injuries I might have hidden. “You okay?”
The question is simple, but the answer isn’t. Am I okay? Physically, yes. But beyond that…
“I don’t know,” I admit, sitting heavily on the bench. “I’ve lost patients before. It’s part of the job. But this…” I gesture vaguely at the door, at the hospital beyond. “This wasn’t disease or accidents or even the usual violence we see. This was… targeted.”
Zach steps forward, his eyes never leaving mine. “I can see that. And I can also see you still have blood all over you.”
I glance down at my hands, still seeing traces of crimson in the creases of my knuckles despite my scrubbing. The metallic scent clings to me, a visceral reminder of everything that happened.
Zach walks over to the sink and grabs a clean washcloth from the stack beside it. The fabric looks impossibly white against his tanned, calloused fingers as he soaks it in warm water. Steam rises between us, curling in the fluorescent light.
Before I can protest, he’s standing directly in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. The small space between the metal lockers suddenly feels intimate, sheltered from the chaos beyond these walls.
“Let me,” he says quietly, bringing the cloth to my face.
I close my eyes as the warm dampness touches my skin. His first stroke is tentative, as if he’s afraid I might shatter under his touch. The contrast nearly breaks me; these same hands that moved with lethal precision just an hour ago now trembling slightly as they clean my face.
“You missed a spot when you washed.” His voice is low and intimate in the quiet locker room. The cloth moves methodically across my forehead, down my temple. “There was so much of it.”
The warmth seeps into my skin, loosening something tight in my chest. Each gentle pass removes more than just blood. It feels like absolution, like care in its purest form.
“Hold still,” he whispers when I shift slightly. His thumb gently tilts my chin upward, exposing my neck. The cloth follows, catching a streak of dried blood I hadn’t even realized was there. “Her blood got everywhere.”
I keep my eyes closed, surrendering to his ministrations. The sounds of the hospital fade away. The distant squawk of police radios, the hushed voices in the corridor, the steady beep of monitors. All that exists is the gentle pressure of the cloth against my skin and Zach’s steady breathing.
“I’ve seen you save lives before,” he says, his voice rough with something I can’t quite name. The cloth pauses at my jawline. “Watched you work on patients at the bar after fights. But never like that. Never under fire.”
I open my eyes to find him studying me. His face is inches from mine, dark eyes cataloging every detail.
“It’s the job,” I say, the words automatic.
“No.” The single syllable carries absolute certainty. He wrings the cloth out in the sink, the water running pink. “Running when bullets start flying, that would be understandable. What you did was beyond the job.”
He returns with the freshly rinsed cloth, this time focusing on a spot near my hairline. His free hand cups the back of my head to steady me, fingers threading through my hair. The simple touch sends a shiver down my spine.
“You stayed with her,” he continues, voice dropping lower. “You kept working even with bullets flying. You didn’t even flinch when that second shooter came through the door.”
The cloth comes away pink again. He rinses it methodically, movements precise and controlled.
“I keep thinking about what could have happened,” I admit, watching as he returns to clean between my fingers where blood has dried in the creases. “If you hadn’t been there…”
His movements pause, eyes flicking up to meet mine. Something dangerous flashes in their depths. “But I was. And I always will be.”
The simple declaration hangs between us, weighted with promise.
His hands cradle mine as he works, thumbs pressing gently into my palms, cleaning each finger with meticulous care.
I’ve treated countless trauma patients, been covered in blood more times than I can count, but I’ve never had someone care for me like this afterward.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say softly, watching his bowed head as he focuses on his task.
“I know.” He doesn’t look up, just continues his careful cleaning. The gentleness in his touch contrasts sharply with the violence I witnessed earlier. “But I want to.”
His thumb traces the inside of my wrist, finding my pulse point. He lingers there for a moment, as if reassuring himself that my heart still beats steady and strong.
When he’s finished, he tosses the washcloth into the biohazard bin with accuracy. My skin feels clean but hypersensitive, like every nerve ending is suddenly alert to his proximity. The air between us charges with something electric that transcends the chaos of the day.
“Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate for the tangle of emotions in my chest.
Zach steps closer, eliminating the already small distance between us. His hand comes up to cup my face, palm warm against my cheek, calloused fingers gentle against my skin. The locker at my back prevents retreat, not that I want to move away.
“I need you to understand something,” he says, voice rough with emotion.
His eyes search mine, intense and vulnerable in a way I haven’t seen before.
“What happened today, that’s my world sometimes.
The violence, the danger. I try to keep it contained, but it spills over. And today it spilled into your world.”
I lean into his touch, finding comfort in the contact. “I’m not naive, Zach. I work in an ER. I see the aftermath of violence every day.”
“Seeing the aftermath is different from being in the middle of it,” he counters, thumb tracing the outline of my jaw. “Different from watching someone you—” He stops, swallows hard. His Adam’s apple bobs with the motion. “—someone you care about firing a weapon, taking lives…”
The unfinished sentence hangs between us. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize what he almost said.
“You protected me,” I say simply, holding his gaze. “You protected everyone in that room.”
His eyes search mine, looking for any sign of fear or judgment. I let him look, keeping my expression open. Finding no revulsion, some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
“The police need your statement,” he says finally, voice steadier. “Then I’m taking you home.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway, suddenly exhausted. “Okay.”
He steps back reluctantly, his hand falling away from my face. The loss of contact leaves me cold despite the warmth of the room. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
As he turns to leave, I catch his wrist. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, pulse jumping at my touch. “Zach.” He pauses, looking back at me. “Tonight still stands. After everything that’s happened, maybe even because of it, we need to talk.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, softening the hard lines of his face. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Doc.”