Chapter 30 #2
The girl Beckett had carried outside was only 15.
She was from Lithuania and was desperate to be reunited with her parents.
She was half starved and severely dehydrated.
They’d keep her hospitalized for a few days before releasing her into the care of her parents.
The agent in charge of her specific case had explained all of that as he and Hayes convinced Beckett it was okay to let her go.
In the end, Beckett had caved. No longer having the responsibility of guarding her, Beckett watched as the ambulance left to take her to the hospital with Agent Gentry following behind it.
He should have felt relief, but he didn’t.
Instead, as the flashing lights of her ambulance disappeared over the horizon, a dark cloud rolled over him.
Void of purpose, he let everything he’d felt since finding the victims consume him.
His breath was trapped in his chest. His muscles coiled with tension.
Why was he so cold? Where had it come from?
A strong hand landed on his shoulder. He knew who it belonged to, but as its owner spoke, he felt a million miles away. Trapped—buried—completely lost to the world.
“Beckett? You alright?”
He didn’t hear the words—nor anything else thereafter.
It was a while later before Beckett surfaced.
It was like waking from an odd dream to find that he was tucked safely in his bed with Hayes wrapped around him.
They were back at the small condo that they’d been using as home base and as he gazed out the window, he found that it was dark out. How long had he been conked out?
He looked up to find his boyfriend sitting up in bed, reading a book propped up against Beckett’s head.
“I feel used,” he complained.
“I would say properly utilised,” Hayes countered.
Beckett sat up slowly, surprised when he felt the pull of new stitches in his chest.
Hayes had changed into a soft grey t-shirt, and his hair was tousled like he’d also slept.
“You sewed me back up?” he asked, looking down at the new bandage on his chest. He was wearing sweatpants but nothing else. He was clean, though, so clearly, he’d been patched up and washed off while he was out of it.
“Glued and taped, actually,” Hayes replied with a smile. He ran a gentle hand through Beckett’s hair, trying to fix his bedhead.
Beckett moaned at how good it felt to have Hayes’ gentle touch on his scalp.
“I didn’t—” he stopped, testing his lungs again. His breathing was back to normal. He felt fine. “What happened?”
“You dissociated,” Hayes informed him calmly.
“Says who?” he snapped, not at all pleased with this sudden revelation.
“Your brother.”
“My brother? Franklin?” he asked in surprise.
“I certainly didn’t ask for Jackson’s opinion on the matter,” Hayes replied, frowning.
Beckett pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing as his bruised nose twinged and his eyes watered. He took a deep breath to center himself.
“You asked my brother to diagnose me?” he asked incredulously.
“He volunteered after Matthew dragged him out of the safe house,” Hayes said.
“He dragged—” Beckett shook his head and turned back to his boyfriend. “How do I not remember any of this? Did I pass out?”
“No—actually, you were perfectly compliant, for once. As soon as we left the factory—just—whoosh! Lights out, baby!” Hayes said, mimicking a curtain falling over his face.
“Dissociating,” Beckett said, recalling the word Hayes had used.
“So says Franklin.”
“That’s fucking embarrassing,” Beckett confessed as heat warmed his cheeks. He’d never dissociated before, whatever the fuck that meant. He’d lost his shit. Had panic attacks, threatened to murder his brother, but he’d never just—blanked out.
“Why? You led them out. You carried that girl around for an hour when she refused to be set down. You were a hero out there.”
And Beckett opened his mouth to protest but Hayes shushed him with a kiss.
“How long was I—non-annoying for?” Beckett asked, feeling a rising panic at how helpless he’d been.
Hayes glanced at his phone.
“Maybe 20 hours, give or take,” he stated casually.
“Hold on. 20 hours?” He squawked and sat up, throwing the covers off him.
Hayes reached for him, grabbing Beckett’s hand and gently coaxing him to settle back in the bed.
“Where are you going? It’s the middle of the night. You need to sleep.” Hayes admonished affectionately.
“The fuck do you mean, sleep! I’ve been completely out of it for the past 20 hours!” he said, feeling like a toddler arguing about nap time. Hayes must have had a similar comparison in mind because his smile was mischievous. Far more so than Beckett was used to seeing.
“I doubt wherever you were was restful,” Hayes pointed out kindly.
“You didn’t sleep. You were wide awake the whole time, just—absent,” he explained.
He was never patronizing. He never treated Beckett like something to be careful with.
Where others saw a ticking time bomb, or a piece of china easily broken, Hayes only ever saw him as a human being.
To be taken at face value. To be treated with fairness.
Beckett was bone tired, but the immature part of him refused to sleep just now. Instead, he shook his head and got to his feet. It was a slow, painful affair, but he managed it without yelping or howling from the pain.
“Beckett. Seriously, come back to bed,” Hayes declared tiredly, as if he was ready to just give up.
“I’m thirsty. I’m going for a glass of water.
Is that allowed?” he asked, aware that he was being contentious.
Hayes shook his head like he found him impossible to deal with and returned to his book.
It wasn’t one of Hayes’ books, Beckett noticed suddenly.
It was one of the paperbacks Beckett kept in his go bag.
“Suit yourself,” Hayes said with a shrug. Beckett padded towards the door, catching the end of Hayes’ “Holler if you pass out!” before he shut the door behind him.
It was still too damned early to be up and about. The clock in the kitchen read 4:00 a.m. and the moon was still up.
“Are you sleepwalking? Or are you truly back?”
Beckett nearly jumped out of his skin when Franklin spoke to him. He was sitting in the shadows of the living room, like some evil mastermind. Dr. No came to mind.
“Fucking hell,” Beckett muttered, pressing a hand to his chest from the shock of seeing his brother again.
“Good to have you back,” Franklin said with a fond chuckle. He looked—better. Not quite as haggard as the last time he’d seen him. He’d trimmed his beard and cut his hair. He still had deep purple smudges under his eyes from lack of sleep, but it wasn’t anything a few days of rest couldn’t fix.
“What are you doing up?” Beckett asked. None of the Thérault kids had been particularly early risers. His mother was, but her kids—not so much. Seeing one of the siblings up before 8:00 a.m. on their days off was extremely rare.
“Could ask you the same thing,” he said, avoiding the question as usual.
Beckett grabbed a glass from the kitchen cupboard and filled it with water from the tap.
He turned, leaning against the counter, eyeing his brother suspiciously before downing the entire thing in one go.
He refilled it before moving towards the living room and carefully sitting down in a large armchair across from Franklin.
“Postponing catching up on sleep, I think,” Beckett said, because he wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t snuggled up against his boyfriend and gone back to sleep. Hell, he knew he was tired enough.
“Ah—revenge for dissociating?” Franklin guessed, cocking his head and wearing that know-it-all smile.
Usually, when Franklin went into psychoanalysis mode, Beckett wanted nothing more than to shove a dirty sock down his throat to shut him up. Now, though—his fatigue was so deep—his system so thoroughly wiped out, he found he had no energy to be angry.
“I guess?” Beckett replied, because it was a distinct possibility.
“Hayes was quite—” he hesitated.
“Worried?” Beckett supplied, unsure why Franklin was struggling for words. To his surprise, his brother shook his head.
“Competent,” he said instead. “He sort of just—dragged you around, not in the least bothered that you couldn’t tell us your name, or where you’d been born.
Just—helped you get comfortable, made sure you were breathing, and looked perfectly content to wait until you snapped out of it. ” Franklin sounded genuinely impressed.
“Suppose he’s used to seeing me lose my shit,” Beckett commented with a shrug.
Franklin shook his head again.
“More like—he loves you enough to wait it out.”
Beckett hummed and took a long drink of water.
He wasn’t exactly surprised. The last year had been—rocky.
What with being hunted, shot at, and betrayed repeatedly, somehow their partnership was stronger than ever.
It was unlike anything Beckett had ever experienced. He was damned lucky, and he knew it.
“How was the happy reunion?” Beckett asked, needing to change the subject.
Franklin’s smile was both bashful and fatuous. It was nauseating. Even after so much time watching Matthew run himself ragged trying to save Franklin’s life, he still couldn’t quite get it through his head that they were truly together.