Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story

by Ariadne Beckett

  It might end up being a reassuring experience, to be reminded firsthand that most humans aren’t evil. Even in a prison.

  This hadn’t been evil. Terrifying, searingly painful, and mired in rules, but not evil. If there had been a single person who actively wanted him to suffer, he hadn’t felt it.

  Kasdan was the last one out, standing at the cell door looking like he’d just witnessed a slaughter. “I’m bringing you the blanket from the van, then I’ll just sit out here and read to you, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Nick, his voice faint. He wasn’t sure about this contraption being calming, but he was close to passing out. Close enough.

  The cool plastic actually felt good to a body composed of inflamed and throbbing bruises. He closed his eyes, and everything went away for a while.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Fury

  JOHN

  The minute his plane landed and started taxiing towards the terminal, John checked his messages. There was a missed call from Neil Kasdan, and John returned it.

  The grave, responsible note in Kasdan’s voice told him something was wrong. It was the voice of a person who’d learned the ugly way that being a “handler” wasn’t all fun and games and chicken soup.

  “He was wonderful on the drive -- calm, funny, didn’t even move without asking us first. He was kinda heartbreakingly grateful not to be restrained. But -- the prison wouldn’t even let the van through the gates until he was cuffed, belly chain, ankle chains, the whole works.”

  “Damn,” muttered John. He’d been afraid of that.

  “We did our best, all of us, including Nick. But it put him back into some pretty uncontrollable trauma. He’s just too badly injured to wear those without a lot of pain.”

  “He flip out?” asked John.

  “No, he sort of went into shock. He was dazed, and I’m not sure he could really see very well, but he was cooperative. There was a friend of his there, a Sergeant Larson -- scary looking, huge guy, but they seem to really like each other. Everyone seemed pretty professional.”

  “But?”

  “Gary and I bowed out when they were going to go through the whole take your clothes off, cavity-search, and shower routine. Figured he wouldn’t want us to see that, we certainly didn’t. I guess all hell broke loose when they tried to uncuff him.”

  “I hate that,” said John, shivering at the memory of a terrified Nick screaming and kicking at him in the rain. “He’s always been calm and sweet about being restrained. Rikers broke a trust that survived five years in prison and a whole handful of arrests.”

  “He’s still sweet about it,” said Kasdan. “But anyway. I guess instead of trying to just talk him through it, they pinned him to the floor and started cutting his clothes off, and one of the guys holding him -- they showed me the tape, he grabbed the chain on the cuffs and put his other hand on the side of Nick’s face and pinned his head sideways against the floor. It wasn’t anything that would hurt normally, looked like they were being pretty careful, but the guy’s fingers went across one of Nick’s eyes and he just lost it and started screaming and struggling, hard. I heard the screaming down the hall and ran in ready to kill someone, but they’d let him go and he was curled up under a table when we -- Sergeant Larson and I -- got in there.”

  “Didn’t those guys know what’d happened to him?” asked John, trying not to be angry.

  “I think they knew, but not the details that would have counted. So -- Nick was just -- shattered, and all he could say was ‘please stop.’ I guess the prison policy is not to use any force beyond basic restraint to do a search, they don’t want it to become sexual assault, so when someone can’t handle intake they stop and just restrain the guy until everyone’s ready to try again.”

  Kasdan stopped and drew in a deep breath. “So -- Larson and I pull the poor guy out from under the table, and try and reassure him while these two guards strap him into a restraint chair in a cell just off the intake area. He’s cuffed, naked except for his boxers, and strapped to a chair. They let me bring in one of my kid’s soft fleece blanket from the car, we covered him with it. I don’t think we should try anything else ‘til you get here.”

  “Is being in that chair freaking him out?” asked John, with a lump in his throat.

  “No -- I actually think it’s pretty calming. He hasn’t struggled, his breathing’s back to normal, and -- it’s quiet, nobody’s trying to handle him or give him orders. I think he’s relieved. But he is cuffed, and he said earlier that hurt really bad. That guy Larson actually tied a strap around his wrists to take pressure off the cuffs, which Nick seemed to appreciate. But I doubt he can stay there long without being in serious pain.”

  John glanced at his watch. Four-thirty. “I’m on the runway at JFK waiting for a gate. FBI has a car waiting for me, but it’ll be right smack in the middle of rush hour before I make it off this plane. I’m guessing an hour or two before I make it there.”

  “I’ve got my Kindle. At this point I’m just gonna sit by the door and read Harry Potter to him and hope he can go somewhere mentally that’s not where he is right now.”

  “Good plan,” said John, suddenly liking Neil Kasdan very much. “If he asks to be let out of that thing, move heaven and earth to do it. He’ll only ask if he’s completely miserable and trusts you.”

  “I’m starting to figure that out about him,” said Kasdan with a smile in his voice. “In the meantime, he complained that we had the wrong color temperature bulbs installed in the office, my car needed leather seats, and that the break room’s interior designer was incompetent.”

  “Adorable little pain in the ass, isn’t he,” said John.

  “Incredibly,” said Neil. “He also tried to talk me into bringing my cat into the office. That was before I, you know, locked him in shackles and brought him here to be subjected to humiliating terror and pain.”

  “Welcome to my world,” said John as the plane finally started to taxi again.

  NICK

  Nick tried desperately to pass out again. Then he tried to focus on Agent Kasdan’s voice and immerse himself in the world of wizards and muggles and spells that could wipe away pain.

  “It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew –"

  Kasdan's voice was pleasant, cultured and mild without being weak. He was a good reader. Nick tried at least to force his head upright and not start crying from his utter inability to escape this warping, constant pain.

  Head held high? He hadn't walked into the arena with his head high, he'd been dragged, screaming. What sort of coward was that afraid of a situation he knew would not do serious harm? Had he been broken? He didn't feel broken, just very bruised, but that was what torture was supposed to do, right? Break him to the point that an encounter with people who were trying not to hurt him was unbearable? If he wasn't broken, John probably wouldn't have given up on him.

  His arms were quivering from being pulled behind his back, and every muscle in his neck, back, shoulders and arms burned like he was trying to hold onto the ledge of a building overhead. He had only started to heal from the taut, hot inflammation of the strained and sprained muscles inflicted when he’d been dragged by his rear-cuffed arms. This was tormenting every one of those injuries.

  He sat on hard plastic with his weight on his badly bruised buttocks and upper legs. He wiggled, looking for some measure of relief, but the restraining straps prevented him from shifting position and relieving the pressure. He clenched and unclenched his fists, digging his nails into the palms of his hands to distract himself momentarily.

  The bandages had been cut off his wrists and ankles along with his clothes, so hard steel was clamped around just-healing cuts and bruises with no protection. His wrists weren’t too bad thanks to Larson’s strap and loosely applied cuffs, but the w
ay the straps of the chair pulled on his legs, there was constant pressure on the shackles biting into his ankles.

  Worst was his stomach, which was a ball of throbbing, spasming fire that felt like he was being operated on without anesthesia. He hadn’t felt it much after surgery because of the pain meds and the fact that he wasn’t moving around. Going to work was iffy. Running and getting thrown down on floors had been a horrible idea.

  He moaned to distract himself, trying to arch his back to at least change something so he wouldn't start crying from the pain. At least he could hold his head up that much.

  Kasdan stopped reading when Nick moaned, came in and knelt at Nick's eye level.

  "Please let me get you out of this thing," he said, not for the first time.

  "No," said Nick, gritting his teeth and resisting the urge to scream at the mere thought of standing, let alone going through that ordeal again.

  "Please read to me," he pleaded. At least it was a caring voice and another world he could try to put himself in, and a place to take his mind that wasn't on him, strapped down in a cell and trying to figure out how to knock himself out or die.

  A place where John hadn’t broken his heart.

  JOHN

  Kasdan had the unmistakable haunted look of an empathetic man coming face to face with violent crime. Worn, tight, in emotional pain himself. Kasdan was technically a field agent, but spent most of his time investigating behind a computer. He was smart and well trained but wasn’t tough and hardened, which had been exactly why John chose him to be Nick’s handler when Nick was in need of gentle friendship above all else. But Kasdan had probably never even set foot in a prison before.

  “I’m sorry, John,” said Kasdan. “It was awful. It was utterly completely awful, and he’s not okay. He keeps passing out in that chair, which I keep telling myself isn’t cruel if he doesn't want out, but it looks like torture and he belongs in a hospital bed, and he won’t let me get him out of it.”

  “Why not?” John asked.

  “I think -- he feels somewhat safe and left alone in there, and he just went through the most horrific, painful, traumatic nightmare, and he knows that he’ll have to try it all over again.”

  Kasdan bit his lip and looked away. “He keeps passing out.” Kasdan’s voice was tight and cracking. “I think -- what he really wants is to die in there.”

  Nick’s words flashed into John’s memory clear as day.

  What you did, holding me in that cell and letting me walk out on my own, was not an error. If there’s anything to the idea that sometimes people choose to fight and live or give up and die....you made the right call.

  Nick giving up and Nick dying were two incomprehensible concepts to him. The guy seemed unbreakable and immortal. But John was beginning to comprehend just how deeply Nick felt things when he allowed himself to. Nick was a survivor with nine lives who took joy in danger, just the way John did.

  But that could also be the symptom of a man who didn’t care all that much about his own life, and might surrender it with the same quiet acceptance with which he faced other horrors.

  John shoved open the unlocked cell door, frantic. His breath caught, and his hands curled into fists as his jaw clenched. He looked around, realizing he was looking for someone else to be shocked and rush to Nick’s side with him.

  His friend was slumped in a restraint chair, his head drooping. Blood trickled down his face, that he was helpless to wipe away. His arms were pinned behind him by his own weight, the straps, and probably handcuffs too.

  Kasdan’s soft blanket at least covered most of his body, save for one shoulder where it had fallen down to reveal a broad black strap tight across his shoulder. Blood was smeared down his ankles.

  There was a sheen of sweat on his body that John very much feared was due to the stress of being in pain and restrained. He cleared his throat.

  “Nick.” His voice came out squeaky.

  Nick met his eyes. His expression was flat, impenetrable, and hostile. He looked tough and dangerous, so much so that the restraint struck him for the first time as needed, not absurd and cruel.

  “Well, welcome back, John,” he said with the bite of bitter sarcasm in his voice.

  He even sounded like one of the stereotypical, snarling, hate-filled felons found behind these bars, and John took a step back, his spine straightening. This was as startling as if Ochre met him at the door snarling with bared teeth.

  “How are you?”

  Nick looked at him flatly, his expression unreadable. His hair was messy and damp, with a random tuft sticking two inches straight up. He looked ten years older then usual, and tough. Hard, with his bruises and the dark lines of healing cuts and a set jaw.

  It was hard to reconcile this bitter, worn convict with the soft, vulnerable young man who’d slept cuddled between him and his wife. He suddenly missed soft Nick very much, and felt a pang of grief when he realized there was unlikely to ever be another chance to feel him completely relaxed, asleep with his arm on John’s chest.

  “I’m sorry, Nick.”

  “You know what? FUCK YOU,” Nick yelled.

  John startled and took another step back.

  “Fuck you and your superior attitude and your fucking little ‘oh, Nick’s my pet and I feel all protective and ownerly and I’m so fucking benevolent for looking at a criminal like he’s a human being.”

  “Nick --”

  “Oh shut the fuck up. If I wanted to be someone’s bitch I could have done that here, you ungrateful asshole. You want your harmless little adoring pal nipping at your heels? FORGET IT AND FUCK OFF.”

  John blinked. He'd been expecting anger, but not full-blown, cursing rage. “I’m trying-”

  “FUCK YOU." Nick jerked, hard, at the straps restraining him and gave John a look of absolute fury.

  "Do you even know how many times I’ve risked my life for this, been beaten and punched and shot at and shocked, just out of pure fucking loyalty to you and your precious closure rate? I work whenever you call me and beyond, day or night.”

  Nick gasped, and gritted his teeth, and his head wobbled like he couldn't support it. His skin was pale and bruised where the blanket slipped away further, revealing broad black straps crossing a chest wet with sweat. John's chest hurt, and he tried to breathe.

  John choked, and coughed, and almost gagged when he realized what that chair really reminded him of. Not torture. An execution chamber. This place looked like an execution chamber, and his beloved best friend and partner the condemned. How had it gone from cuddling a cat burglar to this?

  "Nick --"

  “You throw me in jail after my fucking girlfriend was murdered, and after I get out you act all sensitive and ‘let’s support Nick’? Guess what, Sing Sing Penitentiary isn’t fucking awesome at grief counseling. You let Agent Vickers take me and turned your back until he shot me. Oh, and you left the state and sent me back here when I could hardly walk.”

  John’s legs went weak and his eyes darted around the hideous greenish walls for an escape. Every bit of it focused him right back at a furious and miserable friend.

  “Nick --”

  “I loved you, would have walked through fire for you, and I did. I’ll probably be murdered one of these days for working with you. I’m risking death and torture every second I do this job. You think I should be grateful not to be in prison, you awful fucking excuse for an intelligent human being?”

  “I-” Nick’s glare cut John’s attempt to reply short.

  “I had to deal with serious violence in here twice,” said Nick. “The FBI’s count is eleven. I had a job where people respected me and I had friends who didn’t judge me and guess what, asshole. The guards in here cared about me as much as you, and they were better at ACTUALLY protecting me. If you’ve got some image of this place being some unending hell of beatings and being locked in a cage, well, that’s even more fucking awesome that you ‘saved’ me from it after you PUT ME HERE.”

  Nick gasped in air ag
ain, out of breath and sweating from the exertion of yelling at John.

  John lunged forward, realizing the combination of the tight straps and the way his arms were pulled back was probably impairing Nick's breathing. He stopped himself from grabbing the nearest buckle only when the loathing glare stopped him, a pucker of Nick's lips threatening to spit in his face.

  “I work fucking hard for you and I feel it when you yell at me and put me in chains and suspect me of every damn thing a human being can do wrong and FUCK I want to stay in prison. I sacrificed for you, hard. I changed my lifestyle and my value system. I’m done. I give up. I have no fucking will left to continue this game or listen to you. “