A Casual Weekend Thing

by A. J. Thomas

  Christopher knew the policy, and it wasn’t like he was planning on going anywhere, so he’d accepted it. It had turned out to be lucky. When, waking up from surgery, he’d been too groggy to say no to a little something to help him sleep, Christopher had received a dose of Valium that left him shaking and ready to tear the world apart. Things had just gone downhill from there.

  “All right!” A cheerful surgeon hurried in with a bottle of clear medication. “Your EKG has been stable enough for the last few hours, so we’ve got the okay from the cardiologist to try something else to counteract the sedative. I have something a bit milder, this time. It’s a more potent stimulant than caffeine, but it should be less dangerous than a full-blown amphetamine.”

  “No more fun with electricity?” Christopher exclaimed. He winced when he heard his own voice. “Honestly, if an amphetamine will slow my heart down, I’m willing to let you shock me again.”

  “I want to try this first. Inducing cardiac arrest is not how I prefer to try to treat this kind of reaction.” The surgeon injected the medication into the lowest port on his IV. “I really am sorry. It’s very rare for that class of sedatives to have such strong paradoxical side effects.”

  Christopher really, really wanted to punch the doctor. “What does that mean in English? Or Spanish? Or, hell, I took French in college! Just not fucking Latin!”

  “The irritability and rage are weird. Valium only has this effect on 1 percent of the population, you know. You have some very strange metabolic pathways. You really should report it as an allergy, get one of those bracelets.”

  “Yes, I feel extra special now, thank you!” Christopher slowed down as the adrenaline-induced urge to smack something eased. The crushing, viselike pain his chest became a bit less crushing. “Okay, I think it’s working.”

  The heart-rate monitor attached to him was beginning to slow down. The alarm attached to the machine, which had been driving him insane for two hours, stopped beeping. “Looks like your heart wanted a break just as much as you did. Better?”

  Christopher let his head drop back as the pain in his chest eased completely.

  The machine was quiet for about thirty seconds, and then it started beeping again. “Do you happen to know your normal resting heart rate?”

  Christopher glanced at the monitor and nodded. “That looks right.”

  “Fifty-five beats per minute? Damn. You must keep in shape.”

  Christopher wanted to scream again, but this time the urge wasn’t overwhelming. The sun was already coming up outside his window. He had spent the entire day in surgery, even though he couldn’t remember any of it. Then, when he had finally come around, he’d been too exhausted to ask what they were giving him. Ten minutes after the first dose of Valium, which was supposed to help him sleep while he was stuck in handcuffs, he had been wide awake with his heart and mind racing a mile a minute. He’d never felt pain like the ache in his chest. He’d been furious, frightened, and completely beyond controlling himself. If he had never been through a panic attack before, he might have actually hurt somebody. His frantic attempt to explain had resulted in security, leather restraints on top of the FBI handcuffs, and a dose of an even stronger sedative.

  After that, his heart had begun to race so fast that the monitor hooked up to him, with wires going everywhere like he was a piece of stereo equipment, blared out an alarm. His chest hurt so bad it made his shattered leg seem just a minor ache, and he was rushed back to the emergency room. The ER doctor and surgeon agreed on another medication, which was supposed to stop and restart his heart. Somewhere in the panic, he’d agreed. He had been conscious for about fifteen seconds, after the rapid beeps on the EKG stopped cold and a single, endless alarm blared from the machine instead. He had just enough time to think that the sound of the EKG signaling his heart stopping sounded a lot like the dial tone on an old-fashioned telephone, and to watch the panic and mayhem as the ER staff broke out an electrical defibrillator.

  When he woke up again, he was still tied down, his heart was still racing, and he still couldn’t control himself. Thankfully, a very old doctor calmly said that they were beginning to think the reason his heart was going nuts was chemically based, and asked if he’d ever had any strange reactions to medications. At last, he had managed to explain that his brain didn’t respond to sedatives and stimulants the way other people did. He had to pop a couple of Benadryl to get through most graveyard shifts instead of a pot of coffee. The doctor had also calmly explained that, without knowing how his body would react to other measures, the best thing they could do was wait for the Valium to wear off on its own.

  Christopher’s night had been a frenzied, panicked nightmare of pain, anxiety, and depression, and he couldn’t control his reactions to any of it. Sometime in the night, he had made a joke about wondering if this was how people on PCP could sometimes keep fighting, even after being drenched in pepper spray.

  “Your blood pressure is low too,” the surgeon said cautiously. “Are you feeling light-headed?”

  “You’ve pumped me full of six different dugs, nearly killed me with one of them, restarted my heart by electrocuting me, and then made me wait out all of the side effects. Of course I’m light-headed. I haven’t felt this bad since I finished Leadville.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It's a nasty hundred-mile trail run. It goes up, down, and around a slippery, snowy mountain. In the dark.”

  “Really? A hundred miles?”

  “Yes. Running up and down a mountain for twenty-four hours straight. I’ve run it twice. I hurt more now.”

  The doctor chuckled and finally shut off the alarm. “That would explain the slow heart rate. We’re going to start you on a dose of Adderall every eight hours, so you can get some sleep. I’m going to keep the morphine on an automatic drip until you’ve gotten some rest, then we’ll get you a button so you can control it yourself. Sound good?”

  Christopher tried to pay attention, but his mind was slowing down along with his pulse. He caught something about removing the restraints, and something about the FBI. “Hm? Hey, I didn’t hurt anybody, did I? Other than the guy I shot in the head, I mean.”

  The doctor grimaced sympathetically. “No, Detective. You were remarkably self-aware and controlled, considering the severity of the reaction. I’m just glad we figured out that it was chemically induced. If we had tried giving you another sedative, you probably would have had a seizure.”

  Christopher laughed. “Survive getting shot, getting hit by a car, and being kidnapped by a psycho just to die because I’m allergic to Valium. That would suck.”

  “You were lucky, Detective. Each time. You were lucky we managed to get it sorted out. With the abnormalities with your heart, our cardiologist didn’t even know what type of surgery he should be prepping for.”

  “My heart’s fine.”

  “Your heart is abnormally enlarged. If you’ve run long distances for years, it’s part of your body’s natural response to the stress and it is just fine. We didn’t know that when you were brought in. Between that, going into shock, and reacting to the Valium, the only thing we were sure of was that we couldn’t fix it. You were also damn lucky that the first responder who found you took his job seriously. He not only got out a signal for an emergency evacuation, but he managed to stabilize you, without any equipment, before you went into severe shock. If anyone other than Deputy Heavy Runner had found you, I doubt you’d be here now.”

  “Doug Heavy Runner?” Christopher smiled. So Doug really had been there. He hadn’t been sure. He knew that he’d shot Brubaker, but everything else was a blur. “He’s got a great name.” He had a great heart too. And great eyes, silky hair, a great ass, and an incredible body.

  “Definitely going to let you regulate the morphine yourself before you have any visitors,” the surgeon said, laughing.

  Christopher tried to sit up, but the leather straps really were tight. “Did I just say…?” he asked.

  “I didn�
�t hear anything. Shall I go ahead and list Mr. Heavy Runner under next of kin? He’ll be able to visit outside of normal hours if I do.”

  Christopher smiled, but he was too tired and too drugged up to answer.

  “Sleep.”

  He wasn’t about to argue. He felt like he could sleep for days. He had a few flashes of consciousness, including a few times when he was aware of someone moving him, aware of brief moments when his head, ribs, and leg hurt so bad he couldn’t sleep. He slept through the restraints and the handcuffs vanishing. When he woke up again and found the handcuffs gone, he realized he really had slept for days.

  The fact that he wasn’t handcuffed to the hospital bed when he woke up meant that the FBI had finished digging through the mess.

  He was deliriously grateful for whatever combination of drugs they had him on. They dulled his wits until the endless questions that should have been racing through his head were nowhere to be found. He didn’t think he had ever known such quiet moments before.

  It made him not want to wake up.

  He was pretty sure, through the detached drug-induced haze, that there was nothing worth waking up for. Not anymore. The job was definitely behind him now. His right hand was still half numb, his sliced-up left hand made him pretty sure he’d have trouble holding a spoon, much less a handgun, and he wouldn’t be able to walk for a couple of months at best. He wasn’t as upset about not going back to work as he thought he’d be. Without Peter, there was no reason to go back.

  The specter of Peter, the illusion of an enemy he had used to shape his life and career, was gone. Without all of the anger and pain cluttering his thoughts, he could recognize just how much he still felt like a frightened child, betrayed by the only person who had ever cared about him. Stupid and illogical as it was, all he wanted was for Peter to still be alive and to hold him as he had when Christopher was a little boy. That was all Christopher had wanted that day in the alley too. All Peter would have had to do was comfort him, and Christopher would have forgiven him for everything. Then it would have happened again and again, and by the time he was eighteen, Christopher would have been just as bad as Peter had become.

  Maybe, Christopher thought, Peter had told him to run away because he really did love him. Maybe Peter loved Christopher enough to protect him from everyone, including from himself. Christopher had always secretly hoped that was true. That was why he had never stopped running. As long as he could run, he had always remembered that Peter had at least loved him enough to tell him to run away.

  When his brain surfaced from the detached miasma of memories and dreams, he woke up crying. He pulled himself together once he was fully awake, and he was glad he did, because a nurse came in to check on his vital signs a few minutes later. She smiled at him, told him that it was about time he woke up, and returned a few minutes later with a small plate of food. Even though he knew he should be hungry, he wasn’t.

  He stared down at his leg. The splint and traction system were gone, and now his leg was resting on the bed in a fresh fiberglass cast. It ran from his upper thigh to the bottom of his foot. At least it was a reasonable shade of navy blue. If Delgado was still hanging around, he would have ended up with hot pink.

  Even though he should have been relieved, the realization that his partner was probably already back in San Diego made him sad. Peter was gone, his job was history, and as much as he wanted to believe that he and Ray would still be friends, police officers tended to hang out with other police officers. Ray might be willing to make the effort to stay friends, but in many ways, the job was the only thing they’d ever had in common.

  Doug was probably out of the picture too. Doug didn’t want him. If there had been any doubt of that before, there wasn’t now. When he had seen Doug’s chocolate eyes in the cabin, when Christopher had thought he was dying, he had blurted out exactly how he felt. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. If Doug had been frightened by the fact that things were turning into more than sex before, then Christopher’s confession in the cabin was likely to have frightened him off for good.

  There really wasn’t anything left to wake up for. He shoved the tray of food aside, lowered the bed back down, and tried to sleep again. He didn’t quite drift off, but he was determined to fake it, at least. He wondered, while he lay there, if Peter had wanted to sleep forever too. Christopher knew better. Peter’s life had probably been a nightmare—trapped on one side by his own guilt and trapped on the other side by an accomplice who was more psychotic than he was. Peter, Christopher knew, would have told him he was acting like a baby.

  In every long race he had ever run, there were points where he hit rock bottom, moments where every muscle in his body was screaming at him to stop and he couldn’t see any way to keep going until the end. He would never be fast enough to win, and he had never tried, but during those moments, he didn’t remember what had possessed him to think just finishing a race was enough. During those moments, he had found that the only thing to do was to sit down, eat a candy bar, even if it ended up making him sick, and then keep moving forward. One step at a time, one inch at a time, even if he had to drag himself forward at a crawl. In the morning, he would pick himself back up and find a way to keep moving forward. If he couldn’t pick himself back up, he would crawl. But not tonight.

  “All done?” the nurse asked. He didn’t move. “Oh.” She took the untouched tray and left him in peace.

  When he woke up again, he still didn’t want to face the world. He refused to open his eyes, refused to move. He could tell from the light radiating through his eyelids that the sun was shining. Beyond that, he had no idea how many days had passed or what time it could possibly be.

  “Would you quit that?” An irritated voice reached his ears.

  “Quit what?” Ray’s lightly accented voice asked.

  “Stop playing with that damn thing! Are you physically incapable of sitting still?”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then Ray asked, “Your book is so dull that you can’t focus through my playing a game? I’m not sure if I should interpret that as a criticism of the book or of your literacy level.”

  That was definitely Ray. There was no mistaking the other voice. He had wanted to hear that voice for days. He had dreamed about that voice.

  A soft knock came from the door. “Hey. He’s still out? I thought they were going to stop medicating him yesterday.” That sounded like Belkamp.

  “Drugged or not, he’s tired. Let him rest.” That was Ray again. “You know, we can give you a call when he wakes up. Hell, I can have him fax a report to you once we’re home.”

  “Quit being a dick,” Doug said bluntly.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “So glad to see you two are still getting along” came Belkamp’s all-too-amused voice. “But I’m not here for a report. I figured Hayes might like to know what we’ve turned up about Brubaker and his brother. Oh, and I wanted to offer him a job.”

  “He’s got a job,” Ray insisted, his voice like ice.

  “Oh, you don’t need to pout. I talked it over with my director and we wanted to encourage all three of you to apply with the bureau. You’re all wasted in local law enforcement.”

  “Are not,” said Doug.

  “It might give you and Hayes a chance to work together….” Christopher could hear the promise, and the leer, in Belkamp’s tone.

  “You’re wasting your breath there. They’re just fuck buddies,” Ray snapped with a venom that was out of place for him.

  “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Doug teased. His voice became low and serious. “Look, I know it’s messed up. We just met three weeks ago, and we’ve each been hospitalized for one of those weeks. I know he’s going to leave. But… I’ll take what I can get, and maybe… I don’t know.”

  “And you call me a selfish bastard?” Ray’s voice moved from one side of Christopher’s room to the other. “I might not be able to offer him a happily ever after, but at least I’m honest about it!”r />
  “We’re not arguing about this again,” said Doug. “He doesn’t want a happily ever after. But I doubt he wants someone who’s going to try and pick up his nurses when he’s in the hospital, either.”

  “I did not try. I did. She’s a sweet little thing too.” It took a lot of willpower not to groan at that. He could hear the smugness and he knew the exact look that would be on Ray’s face.

  “So you’re straight after all?” Belkamp asked.

  How much had Christopher missed, he wondered, for that kind of question to come out so casually?

  “I like sex,” Ray tried to explain. “Girls are fun. Guys are also fun. I’ve noticed them before, but I never thought about doing anything about it until recently. I honestly didn’t expect to like it more, but now I am definitely open to the possibility.”

  “You can explore the possibilities with someone else,” Doug snapped. “He deserves better than you.”

  “Oh? He deserves a long-distance friend with benefits who’s going to drop him the instant things don’t go quite the way he wants at work? You’re not even a friend with benefits; you’re just a fucking doppelganger!”

  “If that’s what you’ve got to tell yourself,” said Doug.

  “Would you both shut up!” Belkamp shouted. “I can’t believe this. The two of you have been in this room every day for nearly a week, and you’re so determined to fight with each other that neither of you has noticed the man you’re fighting over is awake and laughing at you!”

  Christopher stopped trying to hold his smile in check. He cracked his eyes open, preparing himself for the onslaught of pain the sunlight was sure to bring. When his head didn’t begin to ache, he relaxed and beamed at them.