Nick’s legs shook from the strain of standing through their briefing. He held himself with alert confidence which deluded even John into forgetting he was far from recovered. “Jeez, sit down,” John ordered, alarmed.
There was a long, polished wooden bench along one wall, and John helped Nick sit, then joined him. Nick swiveled around to angle his back towards John, lowering his head. Get this over with.
John went to cuff him. But there was something making his own hands shake. When he handcuffed Nick, he needed to do it with gentle confidence. He took Nick’s hands in his, and they sat there, tense, trying to reassure each other by holding on tight but not really succeeding. John's head buzzed, an uncomfortable spinning threatening to become nausea. Nick's hands were cold. This felt likely to end in both of them throwing up all over the floor.
Get it together, Langley.
You have to reassure him. You have to be strong and confident for him.
What if he can't handle this? What if I break my best friend, the person literally trusting me with his life? You want Nick to be indestructible. He certainly wants everyone to think he is. But he's not. He's an exhausted, hurt, frightened young man who was visibly relieved to hear you'd find it difficult to hurt him.
"I care, Nick." John's voice came out low and unsteady.
The feel, the sound, the position this placed his body in - they’d all come to remind Nick of torture. Prison. Arrest. And they did so with diabolical precision. But Nick had it in him to be fearless. He didn’t shudder from symbols, even powerful ones.
“How do I do this?” asked John. “You flashed back on me, on Kasdan, on the prison guys... how’d Wills do it?”
“Very slowly, with lots of reassuring and waiting for me to be able to cooperate. He was sweet, especially for a US Marshal.”
“He said the same about you,” said John.
Nick got up his nerve to answer honestly. “It doesn’t take just one thing. When I’ve panicked, there’s been fear, physical pain and force, and emotional distress. For the love of God, don’t go hauling on the handcuff chain.”
Fear, pain, force, and stress. Outside the car that evening, Nick had lashed out because John put him in a situation he couldn’t bear.
John let go of Nick’s hands and patted him on the back. Nick smiled, and the desperate tension of his muscles under John’s hand eased after a few moments.
“Your hand’s shaking,” said Nick, sounding amused. He swiveled back around, gave John a look of bemused but complete affection, and leaned against his side, relaxing. John kept his arm around Nick’s shoulders. It was instant and mutual reassurance, and a weight lifted from John’s heart.
He’s going to be okay.
Sitting there holding Nick, warm and companionable against his side, John’s mind cleared. What Nick probably needed was not to be soothed through having cuffs put on so much as soothed in them. He needed to experience kindness in them, comfort and safety and relaxation. It wasn't physical trauma haunting Nick, but the heartache of cruelty.
“Put your hands behind your back for me, Nick,” said John in a voice that made it a gentle request, not an order.
Nick obeyed, but his arms failed when he tried to bring his wrists together. John frowned. Nick should be able to cross them behind his back. This was what Wills had been talking about. There was a tremor in Nick’s arms from the strain of trying to hold the position, and John took his wrists in a gentle grip to relieve it.
When he'd torn his rotator cuff, John had experienced similar immobility. And intense pain. “Shoulder injuries aren’t any joke,” said John. “Don’t mess around with this, I don't want you disabled just because we felt like rushing a case.”
“You can pull my arms back,” said Nick. “I just can’t.”
“Will it hurt?” asked John.
Nick shrugged. “They hurt regardless. Go slow, I'll be fine.”
“I’m not even holding cuffs,” said John with a reassuring squeeze. Nick’s head bowed forward, a gesture of trust. John eased his wrists into position, and Nick didn’t wince. He’d clearly trained himself to go limp and un-resisting, because it was like moving the limbs of an unconscious person despite the quiver of pain in Nick’s arms.
“Okay?” asked John.
“Yeah.” But Nick's body language betrayed him. He was crumbled in on himself like he expected to be whipped.
John had a sudden inspiration. “Nick, struggle.”
After momentary hesitation, Nick tried to pull his arms from John’s grasp with gentle tugs. It was more of a polite request than a struggle. John let go, and Nick gasped. “Okay, that? Is something you just don’t do.”
“I know,” said John. “Try it with me and I’ll break your neck.”
Nick let out a low laugh. “That is the least logical thing you’ve ever said, and that’s saying something.”
“I saw it scared you when you did it that night you ran. Try again.”
He guided Nick's arms back with his fingers, not even closing his hands. When it started to hurt, Nick pulled out of his grasp. They did it again and again, until he started to hold himself with his usual ease and confidence, losing the heartbroken cowed-puppy look.
This time, John's hands didn’t shake. He pulled his friend’s arms back and put the cuffs on with the same swift authority he’d use with any un-resisting suspect. Doing it slowly scared people more than getting it over with fast and letting them see that they were okay. And like he would with a frightened suspect, he immediately pressed a steadying hand flat against Nick’s back.
“Breathe,” ordered John in a quiet voice. “You’re okay. It’s okay to be scared. Breathe. Don’t struggle. Close your eyes and breathe. It’s okay. Everything you feel right now is okay.”
Nick’s heart was racing under his hand, and John bit his lip in empathy. Fear was the hardest thing for him to inflict on anyone. He could kick someone’s ass in a knock-down, drag-out fight, shoot and kill someone, or yell at them until their ears were ringing. Arresting truly scared people hurt him inside.
Feeling Nick Aster being one of those scared people broke his heart. “Nick. Nick. Nick.”
Nick caught the pleading, please be okay note in his voice and started breathing. “I’m here with you, Nick. Please don’t be afraid.”
Nick’s breathing steadied.
“Does it hurt?” asked John, wanting to slap himself a second later. Of course it hurts, you moron. Don't make the guy play tough to reassure you on top of everything else.
“It’s bearable,” said Nick. He sounded shaky. “Don't let anyone leave me like this.”
John wrapped his hands around Nick’s wrists and the cuffs with soft reassurance. Nick flinched, but managed not to jerk away. John let go, reminding himself of something alien. He's scared. John stroked his arms, remembering how quickly that had reassured Nick on the gurney.
Nick relaxed just enough to say keep doing that. After a minute, John massaged the sore muscles in Nick’s back and shoulders, just as he had at home.
Nick let his head fall forward, and he closed his eyes. “Are you okay?” asked John, a little timid. Being cuffed bothered Nick on an emotional level, and the other times John had been required to do it ....hadn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy.
Nick didn’t answer, and one look at his face told John he was decidedly not okay. In a lightning-fast move, John reached for the cuffs to unlock them. A brief, desolate sound sent a message clear as day. Don’t touch. Can’t cope.
“You’re safe,” said John, forcing calm authority he didn’t feel. “I’ve got you. I put those on you. And I’d as soon shoot myself in the head as hurt you.”
Nick angled his body toward John, head down. John pulled him into a tight hug. Nick pressed against him, tense in terror but able to trust. He slowly started to breathe.
“I’m sorry it took this for me to demonstrate how -- much I do care, Nick,” said John. “And maybe -- for me to realize what you really endure at our hands.”
“In here -- in solitary -- after I escaped ....” Nick hid his face and struggled to continue. “I -- am not sure -- how I survived mourning all the hopes -- I had to say goodbye to. I was alone, and -- it was one of the times this place was turely -- truly -- cruel ....they can punish the hell out of you when they want to. I hate being a prisoner so much, and I stayed when I could’ve escaped, and I stuck around while FBI agents had me kidnapped and framed and shot me, and wondered how I could be so broken that I stuck around to have the crap kicked out of me for years when I could run to paradise somewhere. I was suffering -- horribly -- strapped down in that chair -- I almost asked Kasdan to shove a stake through my eye ....”
Nick stopped, and gulped in air, out of breath from sheer emotion.
John kept his grip tight. If Nick wanted it to stop, he’d struggle. He didn’t speak. This was Nick’s moment, not his.
“I hate being hurt, I hate being a prisoner ....I couldn’t ever understand why I loved being your prisoner.”
John gulped. Without releasing his iron grip on Nick’s upper body, he closed his eyes and touched his forehead to the back of Nick’s head. Nick’s face was buried in the crook of his shoulder, and it was the only way John could hold him any closer.
“....I think there’s part of me that’s been trying for years to fall far enough for you to catch me.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to let me,” said John, choking on the words. “I wanna catch you and never let go.”
Nick went completely limp, so much so that John wondered if he’d passed out. All of that frantic fear and emotion Nick had been dealing with since the attack seemed spent. Nick had driven himself to the edge of endurance, jumped over, and let John catch him.
“You,” said John. “Not that smug bulletproof actor you call Nick Aster. You. That’s who I’ve been trying to catch, and hold, because you need it so damn badly.”
Nick was limp and silent for a good thirty seconds before answering in a small but relieved voice. “You actually mean that, don’t you.”
John nodded. Nick had once said crime was an addiction, and implied he hadn't hit rock bottom. John was fairly certain it had just happened, and that Nick had landed in his arms. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.
Nick spoke again a minute later, his voice thick. “I can’t -- even tell you....”
“I’ve got you,” repeated John. “Nick -- I’m not gonna pretend there isn’t a line you could cross and I’d have to arrest you, make a case against you. But as far as ‘getting rid of you’ -- I sat down and cried after I told Wills to take you to prison. It’s temporary and it broke my heart.”
“When did you decide I was worth ....putting up with me?” asked Nick, sitting upright with a sigh. He stayed very close to John's side.
John smiled at the memory. “When you broke out of jail -- that I had to take you to -- falsely accused by the FBI. And you ran to me. Sitting there on the floor, back against the wall, FBI all around the house, looking up at me with the sweetest damn expression ....”
Nick was wearing that same expression now. “I -- I wanted so badly to trust you, for a very long time. That day I learned I could. For the record, you were pretty damn adorable yourself.”
John’s cheeks went warm. “FBI agents don’t like being called adorable. Or cuddly.”
“Yeah, they do.”
“Fine,” muttered John, trying and failing to squelch his smile. “I’ll go get my recommended daily dose of manly insults from Theo.”
“John?” Nick sounded hesitant, almost shy. “Think you could really teach me to be someone who doesn’t deserve to be locked in handcuffs and cells and anklets? If you knew how much it stings ....you’d know ....if it were just a matter of making an arbitrary choice not to break the law, I’d do it. In solitary -- I’d lie for hours thinking about what landed me there, and I couldn’t usually think of how I’d have done different.”
John gave him a questioning look. He tucked his fingers into one of Nick’s cuffed hands.
“I got put in there once for making fireworks and setting them off.” Nick looked at John with a wry little smile. “I was a poster boy for idiotically dumb decisions. What moron does that in a maximum security prison?”
John had to grin, shaking his head. “Nick damn Aster, that’s who.” He unlocked one of the handcuffs, slipping it off gently, then tucked the key into Nick’s palm.
“The disciplinary board told me I could spend the rest of my sentence for solitary for that, but that my COs were pleading with them to go easy on me. They wanted to know what possessed me,” said Nick, unlocking the second cuff and starting to play absentmindedly with the steel restraints. John’s gut relaxed a bit. That was so adorably Nick. He was healing.
“I said it was the fourth of July, when the country celebrates freedom, and to us it was a day that just hurt like hell. I wanted to do something that said ....we can have this tiny bit of freedom. For thirty seconds, everyone in my cell block got to pretend we were still part of the world. I knew I’d be punished, but how do you make yourself just decide not to live? That’s putting yourself in prison.”
“I don’t know if I can teach you anything different,” said John. “But I can try my best, if you’ll trust me enough to -- hey!” A handcuff had just been snapped shut around his wrist, and he yanked away. “Ow,” he muttered in mock indignation, clutching his stinging wrist with his other hand. Nick had managed to cuff him to a leg of the bench, and his eyes were dancing in glee.
“You little --” After a split-second hesitation, John swatted Nick with his free hand. Nick ducked and flinched, but managed to remain smiling when John’s blow landed as a soft pat on the arm. “Let me go, you ....”
Nick hugged him, and tucked the key into his palm just the way John had. Their eyes met. It’s going to be okay.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
To Be Good
JOHN
A burly CO with a blond buzz cut and a likely affection for steroids pinned John in place with a glare. “You don’t fuck around here, Johnson."
Not the most subtle of alibis, but it should work to keep inmates from learning John's identity.
The guy was pure gym rat, right down to the Kardashian-orange skin. His nametag read Schrader, but he didn't bother to introduce himself. "Obey instructions to the letter, share the load, or you’re out.”
Every hair on John’s neck bristled in hate. But the warden would throw them out with one complaint, so he nodded, and gripped Nick's arm a little tighter.
A second officer approached, and Nick relaxed. That alone predisposed John to like the guy.
"Langley? I’m Sergeant Lyle Evans. I -- knew Nick when he was held in here.”
“Hi,” said John, knowing in an instant that this man had been one of Nick’s lifelines. A generic law enforcement action figure type at first glance, Sgt. Evans had intelligent, tired brown eyes, loose sandy hair, and looked more like a UPS driver than a prison guard. He was also the first person there to call Nick by his first name.
Evans held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Langley-Johnson.”
“You clearly don’t know my reputation," said John. Evans had a firm but not crushing handshake, and carried himself with quiet confidence that immediately commanded respect.
"Great," said Nick. "I'm stuck with this trifle-witted spawn of a sewer mouse again."
Sgt. Evans winked at Nick with an easy smile, looking him and his obvious injuries over with curious sympathy. "Yeah, and I have to put up with this feckless paragon of catastrophic idiocy. I'm getting the worst of this bargain."
Wills and Kasdan, tucked quietly out of the way behind John and Nick, introduced themselves. They were paying attention to the orientation, but mainly watching Nick's back so John could focus.
Schrader didn’t feel he’d antagonized John enough, and was clearly annoyed by the lack of hostility. “You’re bein’ played by a psychopath-con artist, so I’m goin’ on the assumption you’re a total moron. Peo
ple in this unit spend every minute of every day planning. Second they aren’t in restraints they’ll be trying to murder you-"
Nick cut him off. "Yeah, you're totally right. When we're working cases together at the FBI, Johnson here keeps me chained up at his desk because of my pesky murder habit. He's learned to keep me away from stabby things. And staplers."
Schrader was furious to the point of wheezing, and ignored barely-human Nick in favor of continuing to rage at John. "You do not go into cells with the inmates, fucking cuddle them, or stand around chatting like you’re in a tea house so they can distract you from what the animal three cells down has planned.”
Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story Page 38