by SJ Himes
“Did you find an ID on him? You guys cut the clothes off him, and the cops need to know who he is,” the surgeon said, and Gael nodded, understanding. All GSW victims needed to be reported to the police, and being a victim of the active shooter made it even more important to know the boy’s identity.
“I cut his jeans off him in the ambulance,” Gael answered, shaking his head as he thought back on it. “He had nothing in his pockets. No wallet, no ID.”
“Damn,” the surgeon groused, and he frowned. “I guess they’ll just have to fingerprint him and hope he’s in the system. Admin called DCF, they’ll have someone sit with him until he wakes up and tells us who he is. Maybe his parents will come forward. Thanks, man.”
The surgeon made to walk away, but Gael put a hand up and stopped him. “It’s the holidays. DCF is swamped. They won’t have anyone available for a while.”
“An admin rep from the hospital can sit with him…”
“I’ve done it before.” Gael blinked, wondering what he was thinking. He forged ahead, committed. He needed to see the teen again. Just to be sure he was alive, that he was real. That his angel was going to be okay. “I’ve sat with kids before, kids we’ve brought in. I can stay until DCF gets here or they find his parents.”
The surgeon’s gaze settled on him, and Gael waited, hoping.
“Alright. Won’t be the first time a medic’s waited with a patient. You’ll do better in the Recovery room than a DCF rep anyway, they tend to get in the way.”
Gael breathed out in relief, and followed the surgeon through the double doors.
Chapter Three
Beep….beep….beep….
Someone needs to turn off that notification alert… Silas thought, annoyed. He tried to turn his head and bury it under his pillow, but he couldn’t seem to muster the strength. He moaned, irritated, and tried to lift a hand to wipe at his face. There was something making his nose itch. A tug on his arm made him stop, and he gasped as pain radiated out from his shoulder and down his chest.
“Don’t move,” came a voice from nearby. Deep and rumbly. Smooth. Like coffee. Silas smiled, and settled back into his bed, wanting to hear more of that voice. The pain went away, and he floated in a gray place, light coming and going as he listened to the world around him. “That’s it, angel. Don’t try to move, just relax.”
The annoying beeping faded, and Silas focused on the sounds of someone moving next to him, and the warmth of a hand taking hold of his. Larger, callused, strong. Silas smiled, despite the itching around his upper lip and nose. He closed his fingers around the hand that held his, and rubbed his thumb over hot, smooth skin. He hated to be touched by strangers, but this man, this hand, was something else.
“Nurse, I think he’s waking up.” That voice again. “Hey, angel. Can you open your eyes? The doctor is coming, and some people need to talk to you. Can you wake up for me?”
“Keep…” Silas whispered, throat dry. He swallowed, and tried again with better success. “Keep talking to me.”
A chuckle, flowing like warm water over his body. Silas shivered, and held the hand tighter. It had been so long since he felt the affectionate touch of another. That kiss which started his nightmare didn’t count, it was nothing compared to how it felt to hold this man’s hand. “I can do that. Let me see those eyes, kiddo. Wake up for me.”
“Not a kid.” Silas pried one eye open a fraction, wanting to see the owner of the sexiest voice in the world. His eyes watered at the brightness, and he blinked, managing to open them both. Everything was blurry, and it was hard to think past the gray haze swirling around in his brain. He squinted, and his gaze narrowed to the figure standing next to him.
“Wow….” Silas breathed out, in awe. “You are so pretty.”
The man above him froze, bronzed skin going dusky rose from a blush that swept his high cheekbones. Dark eyes, dark hair shorn short, and tattoos peeking out over the top of a dark blue uniform shirt collar, the man above him could’ve been a one of those half-naked veteran models that was flooding Facebook. Just wearing too many clothes. He was gorgeous. And he looked very tired.
He should be scared. This man, this hot, sexy man, was exactly the type of guy he should be afraid of, he should be wary of…though his father was older, and not as broad across the chest and shoulders. This man oozed strength, without the malice his father wore like a mantle. This man gave him a soft, awed smile, a smile that made Silas’ skin shiver in reaction, his belly quiver.
“Umm, thanks. You’re not bad looking yourself, kid. Can you tell me your name?”
Silas frowned, annoyed again. He wanted to sit up, and get a closer look at the vison standing next to him, but his body was refusing to cooperate. He clung to the man’s hand, glad his fingers were working. He never wanted to let go of his hand. “Not a kid. I’m nineteen.”
Just saying that was hard, and he frowned, trying to shift on the bed. Where was he? What was wrong with him? Who was this incredibly handsome guy?
“Nineteen?” the stranger’s brows rose, clearly surprised. “You don’t look nineteen.”
“I …get that…a lot. Not a kid,” he grumbled, and he squeezed the man’s hand again, thankful when his grip tightened in return. He used that grip to focus on, something real, pushing back on the haziness clouding his thoughts. “What happened?”
“You were hurt. The doctors will explain. What’s your name, kid?”
Silas felt a surge of annoyance, getting just a bit angry at the kid comment. He was nineteen! Not a kid. The annoyance and anger began to clear his mind, and with that clarity came the pain.
“Silas,” he gasped, pushing his head back on the pillow, wincing. Something was really wrong. “I was born in 1996. Not a kid.” That last part came out between gritted teeth, and Silas hissed as pain spread through his upper chest and right shoulder, moving in sickening waves. He could feel his pulse beating through his whole body, and his mouth watered, saliva building like he was about to vomit, and his heart began to race.
“Easy, angel. I believe you. Sshhh….just breathe, nice and slow.” The man leaned over him, and put a hand on his head, smoothing back his hair. Silas breathed in slow, and held it for a moment before letting it out. The hand in his hair was helping more than anything, and Silas looked up into dark, coffee-brown eyes. Eyes that seemed to know how much pain he was in, and the concern he saw in their depths eased him back from the edge of panic. “There’s some people who need to talk to you, Silas. Once they’re done, just hit the red button and the pain will stop, okay?”
“Okay…” an object was pressed into his hand, and Silas clutched it, wishing it was the stranger’s hand instead. “Call me that again.”
“What?” the man flushed again, the rosy hue on his golden skin so appealing that Silas forgot his pain for a heartbeat.
“You called me angel.”
The man’s mouth opened, but nothing came out except a strangled groan, and Silas smiled despite his pain.
…
The doctors came in, and Gael found himself swept off to the side. He stood in the corner of the room, watching as the young man—not a kid thank god—answered their questions, the drugs given while in surgery wearing off with each answer he gave.
“Don’t touch me,” the kid snapped, and the doctors backed off, but they continued their examination. Silas glared at them, and Gael was impressed that the usually stoic and in control doctors respected his angel’s space.
Gael leaned on the wall, hands in his pockets, torn between wanting to stay, and wanting to go home and sleep. If the kid was telling the truth about being nineteen, then no one needed to stay with him, and the DCF agent could be sent to handle something else.
“LT?” called a voice near the door, and Gael blinked slowly, subtly stretching his shoulders as he made his way towards the voice. He gave a polite smile to the uniform BPD officer in the hall, shaking hands.
“Sergeant Dalton. You Lieutenant Dominic?” the officer asked, gesturing
him back away from the door as more staff headed for the boy’s—no, man’s—room.
“Yes. Lieutenant Gael Dominic, Boston EMS, Garage 29.”
Gael leaned on the wall next to the door, and he had a good angle on the bed, able to see Silas through the crowd around him. The doctors were explaining to Silas what happened to him, and asking him for his name, and if he had any family they could call. His clothes, while dirty and torn, were designer, and the kid could use a shower, but he didn’t act like a street kid. He maintained eye contact, and articulated clearly when he replied. Hearing Silas say that he didn’t have anyone he wanted the hospital to call struck him as odd. He had to belong somewhere, to someone—no one left a kid like him alone in the world.
“LT?” Gael stopped watching the circus happening in the room, and finally realized he should pay attention to the good officer. There must be a reason he was wanting to talk to him.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant Dalton?” Gael stood up straight when the herd of coats around Silas broke off his view.
“Can you tell me what happened? The scene was cleared before we allowed EMS in, I just wanted to get a firsthand account from you….”
Gael interrupted him. “What happened is that BPD did a piss poor job of clearing the area after the shooting. That kid in there,” Gael stabbed his finger in the direction of Silas “—was in an alley ten feet from where BPD dropped the suspect. He should never have been missed. So almost an hour goes by before he gets help. It’s a fucking miracle he wasn’t dead when I found him.”
Sergeant Dalton gave him a glare that would have dropped a rawer public servant to his knees. Gael was tired. His nerves were on the edge, his mind frayed with what-ifs and I-can’t-forgets, and all he wanted was to see his alleyway angel one last time before he went home and slept for a few days.
Screw the holidays.
“I can see that you’re in no shape to give a statement, Lieutenant.” Gael manfully withheld his snort of derision, and the sergeant narrowed his eyes at him, “so I’ll come ‘round Garage 29 in the next few days. I’ll get your statement then.”
“See ya then, Sarge,” Gael replied, and pushed off the wall when the sergeant walked into Silas’ room, speaking to his doctors.
Gael rubbed his face, hard. He was too tired for this. Too tired for all of this. His angel—Silas—would be all right. Gael had gotten a thorough look at his chart when he was waiting on the kid to come out of the anesthetic, and Silas wouldn’t be able to use his arm for a few weeks and would need some physical therapy, but he would be fine. Some scars and some lingering aches in bad weather, but he would be fine. Gael ran a hand down his side, feeling the small circular scars left from his last tour in Iraq. He knew exactly how Silas would be feeling in the next few days and weeks.
Gael tried to get one last look, but the sergeant was talking to Silas, and he couldn’t see anything. He walked down the hall, and got in the elevator to take him to the exit. A few minutes later, he walked outside, and his cell vibrated the second he cleared the exterior wall of the building.
I had one of mine drive your car over to the hospital. Spot 31. Keys on the driver’s side front tire.—Cap
The parking lot was almost deserted, and Gael was able to spot his car easily enough. He was tired, but he could drive.
Gael skipped heading back to the garage. He had a whole week off, and for the first time in years, was actually planning on taking advantage of it. He pointed himself in the direction of home, wanting nothing more than his bed.
He did his best to forget about an angel with a sharp tongue, a stubborn smile and emerald green eyes.
…
“No!” Silas gritted out, glaring at the asshole cop standing over him, trying to calm him down by ineffectively petting his hand and arm. The doctor and nurse next to the door stopped talking and looked over at him in concern. Silas ignored them in favor of convincing the cop to keep his nose out of his business. “And I said back off! Don’t loom over me like a perv!”
The cop gave him a nasty look, but backed away from the bed. Sergeant Rude kept wanting to touch his wrist or his forearm, petting him like a dog or a toddler. His skin felt like it was stained. He hated, absolutely hated, having strange men touch him. He didn’t mind hugs from friends and some mild groping from dates, but strangers touching him left him feeling sick.
“I don’t want you calling my father! I’m nineteen, not a kid, and if I said I don’t want him to know I’m here, then you can’t tell him!” he had to get this asshole to listen to him since Silas wasn’t able to keep himself from spilling his last name when asked. Damn drugs. They were wearing off but not fast enough. At least he hadn’t made too big of a fool out of himself with the hot guy.
“C’mon, kid. I can’t not tell him! You’re Franklin Warner’s son, and you were just injured in a mass shooting. I already got your name, and this is a very serious situation. Now tell me what you were doing down there at that time of night on Thanksgiving.”
“I was looking for a new TV,” Silas snarled, terror spurring on his anger. If this cop told his father where he was, he was never getting out of here. Dear old Dad would storm in here, and Silas would be helpless to escape. He would find himself locked up in a Catholic pray-away-the-gay camp in the dystopian South before Christmas.
It was times like these Silas really hated being the only child of one of Boston’s most powerful men. Franklin Warner. District Attorney for Suffolk County. Devout Catholic. Devoted public servant. Abusive monster who drove Silas’ mother to drink and left Silas perpetually afraid he would be married to the first church mouse his dear old man picked out of the congregation. And afraid that the next time his father hit him would be the last…and he would never get back up again.
Machines blared, and Silas moaned, the pain responding to his emotions. He could feel every damn twitch and spasm, and everything, literally everything, hurt. He wanted to sleep, to hit that neat little red button the hot guy had given him before mysteriously disappearing when the doctors swarmed him. If he did, the next thing he knew he would be waking up in his dad’s townhouse, and under lock and key.
“You need to leave,” a nurse ordered the cop, and Silas wanted to cheer, but the pain left him gasping, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His whole body tensed, and Silas moaned, wishing suddenly for a hand to hold.
His hand. Hot guy would do nicely. Where did he go?
Silas ignored the cop as he let out another moan of pain, and he shut his eyes, hearing the cop argue with the nurse, and then the doctor. The medical types won in the end, and Silas knew he had very little time to get out before his father’s lackeys, or God forbid, his father—came to get him.
“Sweetie, hit the button. It’ll stop the pain,” the nurse hovered over him, and Silas made a show of hitting the button. He cracked open his eyes and took a peek, but the nurse must have thought he hit the morphine button, because she was too busy watching the doctor and the cop getting into a loud argument in the hall outside his room.
Silas willed his heart to calm, and waited. The pain was intense, but the second he relaxed it eased a fraction, letting him breathe. Years of enduring beatings gave him a higher tolerance for severe pain, and it was coming in handy now. He needed to get out of here, and he couldn’t do that drooling into his pillow.
Chapter Four
Gael stared at the ceiling. He knew it better than he did the back of his own hand. Each line and minute crack, every tiny little swirl in the paint.
The clock said it was 7 a.m., but it felt like noon. He was wide awake, having only slept a few hours. His mind was clear, but it was stuck in a memory even more real than the bed he slept in.
Blood, sand. Dust and dirt and the stench of burning flesh.
Gael got up, and padded his way across his room, managing to get to the bathroom without turning on the light. There was nothing to trip over anyway. He let his mind stay in the memory, since forcing it never made them leave. Only made th
em stay longer, dug in deeper.
Going through the motions of washing himself, cleaning away the residual sweat from stress and fatigue helped. Shaving, brushing his teeth. Dressing. He had a moment where he forgot he wasn’t on duty, and was about to put on his uniform, but he corrected himself and put on a pair of dark jeans and a Henley, and grabbed his leather jacket. All done by rout, all simple things that let him learn again how to be Gael Dominic, civilian.
Ten years. A lifetime, but it felt like yesterday. The shooting brought it all back, even though he hadn’t seen anything of the actual event, not going in until after the suspect was dropped in hail of bullets by BPD.
A bowl of cold cereal was his breakfast, and the lack of coffee in the cabinet gave him the excuse he needed to get out of the house. There was a reason he rarely took time off from work. It was too quiet, too empty, too easy for the memories to start creeping back in, and he refused to clutter his house with meaningless emotions and memories in a futile attempt to blot out the nightmares.
…
The drive through downtown Boston was a nightmare, but his Mazda 6 was smarter than he was most days so he made it in one piece, and he found himself the most elusive commodity in Boston—a parking spot on the street next a Dunkin Donuts. The scent of pumpkin-flavored everything swamped his senses, but he resisted the allure of the perennial favorite. He ran inside the Dunkin, and waited in the abnormally long line for his white chocolate mocha before wandering back outside. He sipped, and let his feet take him where they wanted to go.
Christmas decorations were already going up, city employees in trucks attaching evergreen boughs and red bows to the wrought iron lamp posts, and a majority of the stores on the street had Christmas lights glowing and winking in the front windows. Holiday music poured out onto the street, and almost every person he saw wearing a scarf had it in shades of reds and greens. It was Black Friday, and it felt like day one of Christmas.