Chapter 18 Eamon
Chapter eighteen
Eamon
The world reassembled itself one piece at a time.
White ceiling tiles. A rhythmic beep somewhere to my left. The chemical bite of antiseptic cutting through anesthesia fog. When I tried to shift, pain bloomed hot and immediate in my shoulder.
Christ.
"Don't." Mac's voice, close. His hand closed around mine before I registered he was there. "Don't try to move yet."
I forced my eyes open. Everything swam, then steadied. Mac's face materialized above me—exhausted, unshaven, but the person I most wanted to see.
"Did we get her?" My voice was raw.
"Yeah. Michael tackled her. You took the bullet meant for me."
Fragments of my memories came back. The basement. Vanessa's gun tracking toward Mac. The moment I'd stopped calculating and moved.
"Good." I looked into his eyes through the fog. "Worth it."
"Don't say that." His tone was sharp, almost angry.
"It's true."
He squeezed my hand. "You could've died."
"Didn't." The word came out slurred. I wanted to say more—tried to tell him that three years of guilt had burned away in that single instant, that choosing to stand between him and danger hadn't felt like redemption so much as inevitability—but the drugs pulled at me. "Shoulder hurts like hell, though."
"Good. That means you're alive."
A nurse appeared, checked monitors, and said something about pain management. I lost the thread. Mac's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand.
"Prognosis?" I asked
"They said the bullet missed everything important. Clean through the muscle."
"Lucky."
"Yeah." Mac's voice cracked slightly. "Lucky."
I began to drift out of consciousness again. The last thing I registered was his fingers carding through my hair. Gentle. Like I was something that might break.
I surfaced to voices and the smell of something that wasn't hospital food.
"—needs actual nutrition, not whatever sad excuse you're calling lunch—" Ma McCabe's voice, unmistakable in its authority.
The door opened. She swept in carrying contraband Tupperware, took one look at me, and her expression softened.
"There he is. You look less like death. Progress." She set the containers down, then surprised me by kissing my forehead. "I brought stew."
Mac jerked awake in the chair beside the bed and laughed—the first real laugh I'd heard from him in days.
Behind Ma came Marcus and Michael, still in work clothes. Marcus moved directly to the chart without asking for permission, nodding to himself as he read. Michael brought coffee.
"Your PT instructions are conservative," Marcus said, setting the chart back. He handed me a list. "Add these once he's past the initial healing. He'll get mobility back faster."
"He's grumpy," Michael announced to Mac. "Definitely healing."
"I'm right here," I said.
"We know." Michael's grin was sharp. "That's why we're talking about you instead of to you. More fun this way."
Ma unpacked food while telling us about her battle with hospital administration. Made me eat while Marcus explained the PT additions, and Michael made jokes about professional patients.
The room was crowded and chaotic. The McCabes were back.
After they left, Mac was smiling.
"Fair warning," he said. "It gets worse."
"What does?"
"The claiming. You're in now. Permanently." He poured water and held the cup while I drank. "Miles is coming later with books, and Claire's bringing flowers. Ma's already planning Christmas dinner around your discharge."
"When's that?"
"Christmas Eve. Just under a week from now." He settled back in the chair, reaching out for my hand. "If you behave."
Six days until I could leave this room. Seven until Christmas with a family that had claimed me without giving me a choice.
I wanted to be claimed.
"I'm okay with that," I said.
Mac's hand tightened on mine.
Detective Morris arrived late afternoon, badge clipped to his belt, notepad in hand.
"Mr. Price." He pulled up the visitor's chair. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got shot."
His mouth twitched. "Fair enough. I need your statement about the incident. Walk me through what happened."
I shared what I knew from arriving at Ma's house to the power cutting. The basement. Vanessa's entry through the window. Her weapon. The moment before Michael's tackle when the gun went off.
Mac sat beside the bed, hand wrapped around mine, probably remembering it from a different angle.
"Mr. McCabe's statement matches what he gave responding officers," Morris said, making notes.
"Now, Vanessa Kensington is currently in custody at King County Jail.
We've charged her with attempted murder, first-degree assault, felony stalking, first-degree burglary, and unlawful imprisonment based on evidence we found in her apartment and vehicle. "
My stomach clenched. "What evidence?"
"Detailed plans for your abduction. Restraints.
Sedatives. Documentation of eighteen months of surveillance.
" Morris's expression stayed professionally neutral.
"She's talking. A lot. Keeps explaining her preservation protocols for Mr. McCabe.
Psych eval came back—she's competent to stand trial, though her attorney will likely argue diminished capacity. "
"When's the trial?" Mac asked.
"Arraignment's next week. Trial won't be until spring—probably April or May. You'll both need to testify." He stood. "In the meantime, there's a protective order. She can't contact either of you. We'll keep you informed as it proceeds."
After he left, silence settled over us.
"Spring," Mac said finally. "We'll have to come back."
"Yeah."
"You okay with that?"
I thought about Vanessa's face in the basement. The gun. The messages that had made Mac's skin crawl for weeks.
"Yeah," I said. "I want to see her held accountable."
His fingers squeezed mine. "Agreed."
A physical therapist arrived the next morning with professional cheer and a warning that his work would hurt.
He was right.
Forward flexion sent fire racing down my arm. I did my best to keep my face neutral. Mac held onto the bed rail beside me—present.
"External rotation," the therapist said. "On three. One—"
He moved on two.
The pain crested white-hot. My body tried to convince me I was dying. Mac's fingers slid from the rail to my hand, anchoring me while everything else tried to come apart.
"Perfect." The therapist eased my arm back. "We'll repeat this twice daily. By Christmas, you should have significantly improved mobility."
When he left, I was shaking. Sweat-soaked, trembling. Mac grabbed towels from the bathroom and pressed one to my forehead.
***
A few days later, Miles arrived near evening, carrying books. He set the stack on the table—Mary Oliver poetry, his own worn copy—and claimed the visitor's chair.
"Trauma recovery isn't linear," he said without preamble. "You'll have good days and shit days. Sometimes in the same hour." He met my eyes. "The nightmares will probably start in a week or two. Once your brain decides you're safe enough to process what happened."
Mac was quiet beside the bed, listening.
"Don't isolate," Miles continued. "That's the trap. Thinking you need to handle it alone because it's your trauma." He glanced at Mac. "Let him in when it gets bad. He's stronger than he looks."
"I'm right here," Mac said.
"I know. That's why I'm saying it." Miles stood. "You did well, Eamon. Both of you did."
He left the books. Claire arrived as he was going, carrying simple flowers in her quiet way. She arranged them in the water pitcher without speaking, then settled into the chair Miles had vacated.
We didn't talk. Just sat. Sitting silently with her was like resting in a temple—space to breathe.
After ten minutes, she stood. Touched my uninjured shoulder briefly. "You're good for him," she said quietly. "Thank you."
Then she was gone.
Mac stared at the door. "She doesn't say things like that."
"What things?"
"Direct things. Emotional things." He looked at the flowers. "She likes you. That's—that's huge."
Heat spread through my chest, like whiskey going down.
The doctor stopped by for evening rounds, checked the shoulder, and asked about pain levels.
"You're healing well. If this continues, we'll discharge you on Christmas Eve. We'll send you home with pain management instructions and PT instructions, and you'll have a follow-up in a week. Sound good?"
"Yeah."
"Christmas Eve," Mac said. "Ma's already planning. Christmas dinner. The whole family. She wants—we want you there."
My throat felt tight. "I don't know—"
"I know it's a lot. I know we're overwhelming. But—" He paused and then dropped into a quieter tone. "They decided. No vote allowed."
"Decided what?"
"That you're family. Ma claimed you, Marcus gave you medical advice, Michael made fun of you, Miles tried to offer therapy, and Claire brought flowers." He squeezed my hand. "You're in. Permanently."
"I've never had a family Christmas like that," I said quietly.
Mac's expression shifted—surprise. "Never?"
"My parents weren't big on holidays. And after I left home—" I shrugged with my good shoulder. "Didn't seem worth the effort for only me."
Mac moved closer. Both hands around mine now. "You're not just you anymore. You're ours. If you want to be."
"I want to be."
He leaned in and kissed me. Outside, the sky had gone dark. Seattle's winter pressed against the windows, but we were warm inside.
Safe.
"Two days," Mac said against my mouth. "Then we get you out of here."
"And after that?"
"After that—" He pulled back enough to gaze into my eyes. "We figure out the rest together."
When visiting hours ended, the hospital was always quieter. Monitors beeped their rhythm. Somewhere down the hall, someone coughed. A nurse's shoes squeaked on linoleum and then faded into the distance.
Mac had pulled his chair as close as it would go, hand resting on the blanket near mine. Not quite touching.