Chapter 29 #2
Good. Knife wounds were usually easier to deal with than bullet wounds were.
The farther down his body he went, the worse it looked.
Beckett’s sides were riddled with bruises.
Pink and purple marks covered his ribs, abdomen, and back.
As he ran a hand over the third rib, Beckett cursed a blue streak.
“It’s likely broken,” Hayes said, fighting the urge to howl angrily.
“Cracked,” Beckett argued, shaking his head.
“You an MD now?” Hayes fired back.
“Had enough broken ones to tell the difference,” he retorted, softly, like he knew Hayes was barely hanging onto his own sanity.
“We need to get you checked out,” Hayes insisted, unable to keep his hands from running over Beckett’s body repeatedly.
“No—” he said, shaking his head. He tried to sit up.
Slowly. Hayes’ hands shot out to stop him, but Beckett grabbed them, using them to pull himself up instead.
He didn’t let go of them even while he was busy wedging himself into the corner of the couch.
Hayes’ hands stopped shaking. They never shook when Beckett held them.
“I’m perfectly—,” he began.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Hayes growled in warning.
Beckett chuckled but held up his hands in defeat.
“I’m almost fine,” he said, instead. Hayes grumbled but let it slide.
Beckett looked away from Hayes towards Matthew. Begrudgingly, Hayes moved aside for Matthew to approach Beckett. If it were up to him, Hayes would whisk his boyfriend away and get as far fucking away from this whole shit show as possible but—
“They found the mole,” Beckett said, with a sigh.
“The mole?” Matthew asked, confused.
“The guy the FBI planted. They caught him, and he told them he wasn’t alone,” Beckett said with a tired sigh.
“We know,” Matthew said. “That’s what the meeting was about, though he said very little about it. He thought you were connected somehow?” he asked.
Beckett nodded weakly and smiled grimly. “We were the last ones to get hired, so they were suspicious. They asked me my name. Asked me who’d hired me. They weren’t really buying my story until I got them to look up the picture of us at the gala with Jonathan Kent.”
“So he doesn’t know about us—but he doesn’t think the FBI agent they caught was a fluke—or working alone,” Hayes proposed.
“Exactly.”
“That’s not good. If he thinks the FBI still has someone on the inside, he might get rid of everything. Panic and close up shop—get rid of the shipment and the victims,” Hayes said, as he realized the implications of that.
“Exactly. You have to call Special Agent Gentry. Let her know what we found out. And get these boots off me, they might help us,” Beckett said, gesturing to the filthy boots he was still wearing.
“Your boots?” Matthew asked, puzzled.
“I think they took me there—to the factory. The floor was unfinished and wet—the factory was built on old marshlands, right? It would make sense,” he looked at Hayes, his gaze telling him, “See, I listen!”
And Hayes could have kissed him. Would have, if it hadn’t been for the busted lip and bloody mess of a bandage that urgently needed to be replaced.
“Later,” Beckett said having read Hayes’ mind. He offered a dodgy wink as he winced in pain.
Hayes merely rolled his eyes.
“I’ll go call Gentry. Amanda, is there a first aid kit in the house? The idiot needs fixing,” Hayes said.
“I’ll go fetch it,” she replied and raced towards the bathroom.
“See, her I like—no nonsense. They dropped me off and you know what she said when she opened the door? ‘Oh—we don’t accept deliveries on Tuesdays—can you come back?’” Beckett said, smiling with genuine pride at the assistant’s sass. He looked like a complete lunatic.
Hayes would have blamed all that on the blood loss and head trauma but—he’d never been a fan of lying to himself.
“Shut up and rest,” he grumbled instead.
If Beckett wove their fingers together and squeezed Hayes’ reassuringly, neither said anything about it.
Special Agent Gentry sent an agent to retrieve Beckett’s boots to take to their lab to process a soil sample from the detritus stuck to the soles.
The poor gopher had been forced to swear on his mother’s life that he’d return the boots as soon as possible.
Those Doc Martens were more precious to Beckett than words could possibly describe.
After the errand boy left, Beckett laid back on the couch so Hayes could call Chase using FaceTime.
By then, it was close to 2:00 a.m., but Chase didn’t seem a bit surprised by the call. He was bleary eyed and confused but still ready to roll.
“Whatever you do, keep pressure on it,” Chase said, though the words were half muffled by the pillow he was attempting to wrestle out of the way.
“It’s not a gunshot,” Hayes said calmly, hoping his tone would serve to reassure Chase that no one was dying. There was a muffled reply that sounded disgruntled before they heard the click of a door, and Chase’s face suddenly appeared under bright bathroom lighting.
“Christ,” he said, clearly blinded by the sudden bright light. He blinked a few times, trying to orient himself before he turned back to the screen of his phone. “What’s up?” he asked, like they always called him in the middle of the bloody night for medical advice.
“Beckett got—” Hayes hesitated. They hadn’t actually discussed it. He’d just seen the blood-soaked bandage and assumed it was hiding something nasty. Beckett’s mention of a knife had been vague.
“Poked with a sharp knife,” Beckett said, carefully choosing his words.
“So stabbed—” Chase surmised.
“Stab makes it sound deadly—he poked a pointy knife in my chest—twice, and then kinda—eh—connected the puncture wounds.” Somehow that last part made the description of the injury less clear.
Hayes turned his screen so Chase could get a good view of the blood-soaked bandage, which was now so saturated that it was barely hanging on.
“Jeez—” Chase said, wincing at the sight. “Did you patch yourself up?”
“Nah—well, I don’t really know who patched me up. I kinda woke up with the bandage.”
Chase shook his head in confusion, not really all that awake yet.
“Just to make sure I got this right—you were stabbed, twice, in the chest. In the middle of the pectoral muscle, yes?”
Beckett gave a curt nod and then winced, as his ribs were too bruised for the abrupt movement.
“Clearly, whoever patched you up did a shit job,” Chase mumbled. “Muscle isn’t vital—and that’s not enough blood loss to kill you, but it shouldn’t be bleeding this much. How long has it been since you got stabbed?”
And weren’t those just insane questions to be asking.
“I really don’t know what time it was—I was underground. But I’m guessing it’s been at least a couple of hours.” Beckett turned to look at Hayes. “How long was I gone?”
Hayes glanced at his watch. It was currently 2:00 a.m. They’d left the Rosario’s house around 6:00 p.m. Beckett had gone missing shortly after their arrival.
“You disappeared around 4:00 p.m. That gives us an 8-hour window. I’m guessing you were stabbed at least 2 hours ago.”
“The wound should have stopped bleeding by now,” Chase confirmed unhappily. “Alright, Monroe—what are we working with?” he said as he stifled a yawn.
And so began the complex process of removing the existing bandage, disinfecting the wounded area, applying butterfly bandages, and covering the area with fresh gauze.
It would be best if Beckett saw a doctor in the morning, but since Chase wasn’t an idiot, he prescribed a load of antibiotics they’d need to pick up in the morning if they didn’t get around to a hospital visit.
Which had a high chance of probability of not ever happening, since this was Beckett they were dealing with.
“Those ribs are going to need X-rays,” Chase grumbled right as Beckett was preparing to say goodbye.
“I never said my ribs were injured!” he complained.
“You didn’t need to—I’ve seen your ouch-it-hurts-to-breathe face too many times not to know,” Chase said, stabbing his finger at the screen accusingly.
“I’ll get him checked out,” Hayes vowed.
Chase gave a nod of satisfaction.
“Stay safe—whatever crazy shit you’re up to.”
And neither of them could promise that so they just said thanks and hung up.
“What now?” Beckett asked. They were still occupying the living room couch of Matthew’s condo. Neither of them had eaten in the past 12 hours, and though the clock on the mantel read 2:45 a.m., Hayes was too wired to sleep.
“Shower, eat—”
“Sex?” Beckett asked, hopeful, though both of them knew perfectly well no one would be getting lucky any time soon. Not when most of Beckett’s body was currently a mass of colorful bruises with some cracked ribs that hurt with every breath.
“Sleep,” Hayes said. “Shower, eat, and sleep. We can’t do anything until the FBI decides to make a move. We’ll have to lie low and hope it works out,” Hayes said, stating aloud what they both knew needed to happen.
“I hate this place,” Beckett said, looking around at the boring, sterile condo.
“I can drive us back to the safe house,” Hayes suggested. Beckett grimaced, clearly not looking forward to a car ride in his current state. Finally, he shook his head.
“I just need clean clothes,” he finally declared.
Hayes gave a curt nod of agreement.
Showering was a major production. It involved tape, garbage bags, and a whole lot of cursing, but by 3:30 a.m., Hayes was rather proud to have a clean, and fed, Beckett tucked safely in bed next to him.
Matthew had scrounged up a bottle of Tylenol for him.
While it wasn’t nearly strong enough to kill the pain, when coupled with a shot of scotch, Beckett looked comfortable enough to finally get at least a few hours of rest.
“Thank you,” Beckett sighed gratefully, totally exhausted.
Hayes responded by pressing himself against Beckett’s back. Inhaling the comforting scent of his unique blend of sandalwood and leather that permeated his skin, Hayes tucked his nose into the bend of his neck and drifted off.