Braided Lives

by AR Moler

  Tonight might be a good opportunity to take her out to eat, away from the complex, and find out how much thought she'd given to the idea.

  ***

  She-crab soup, salad, and prime rib… Jennifer struggled to decide if she dared do dessert. On the table, where her hand lay, Peter played with her fingers. It was sexy and comfortable. She could feel just a hint of his mind brushing against hers; neither of them was unshielded in such a public place. "When Danny gets back from Chicago, I think all three of us should make a night of it," Peter said.

  "Mmm, dinner and dancing?" she replied, deliberating avoiding the implication.

  "I was thinking naked in bed."

  Jennifer smiled. The thought was alluring. Peter rubbed his thumb along the center of her palm. Except for a kiss, it was about as intimate a gesture as he could make here.

  "I know you keep holding back. The offer is not intended to be a one time wild night never do it again thing. With Danny and me, it started out physical and became a lot more. You're the one who pushed us into realizing it was more. It feels right to me to make you part of my life, in the same way Danny's part of it, too,"

  he finished.

  She sat looking at his hand holding hers, for a long moment. "Can three people make it work? Sometimes even two have issues."

  "I won't promise there won't be times when we drive each other round the bend, or that we won't ever fight, but inventing problems before they show up is awfully fatalistic. You come from a big family right?"

  "Yeah, you could say that. I have four brothers. The long standing joke is that my parents kept having kids until they finally got a girl."

  "I'm an only. My dad died when I was a teenager. My mother died four years ago. I suppose you could define me as someone who wants people to love. Being bisexual used to seem like a mixed blessing; these days I think maybe I'm not supposed to choose, that I need both. I want that to be you and Danny."

  "And if we really screw this all up?"

  "That's life."

  ***

  Back in his quarters, Jennifer and Peter drank a bottle of wine and cuddled on the sofa with the TV playing softly in the background. Snuggling led to kisses and wandering hands. Sprawled on the couch beneath Peter, Jennifer remembered a similar event. But that particular time they had shared a few heated kisses and little more. Peter was apparently thinking back on that morning, too, because she saw glimpses of his memories.

  "I want you," he whispered. "I want you worse than I did that morning." His hips were snugged between her thighs and he was pushing her down onto the cushions.

  Jen wanted to just give in to the lust but a niggling little piece of angst wouldn't quite let her. "What about Danny? Last time it was all three of us and I don't want to cause issues."

  Peter gave her a solemn look. "We talked about it before he left. He is perfectly okay with you and me having sex." Peter's shields were entirely down and she saw a snip of conversation that had occurred. Danny had even brought up the possibility that two might be less intimidating than three as a next step.

  Jennifer let her objections fade and focused on the moment. Peter's mouth was a glorious, gentle assault on her own.

  "How 'bout we take this to the bedroom. I've fallen off this couch more than once," said Peter, and she knew he meant with Danny.

  On the bed, Peter stripped her very slowly. Her shirt departed while he did a sinfully decadent version of his magic fingers massage on her shoulders and back. Her jeans were unzipped and his hand slipped slowly down the front, exploring, first outside her underwear, then inside. Peter eased a couple of fingers between intimate folds and she knew she was slickly wet with desire. He was slow, almost maddeningly so, rubbing, teasing, and stroking. Only when she was rocking against the careful, slippery friction, trying to find a way to ramp it up another notch, did he finally divest her of her jeans and undies.

  Peter rubbed his face along the inside of her thigh.

  Damn, he needed a shave. She was apt to end up with a bit of "rug burn", but she didn't care. His tongue replaced his fingers, licking at that most sensitive nub, then dipping inside and returning to frustrate her some more. He finally relented and focused on the best spot.

  She felt the build tightening her muscles and her pulse was throbbing in far too many places. The release was like the backlash of an unwound spring, a wild uncontrolled pulsing rush.

  Kissing his way up her pubic hair to her belly button and then to her breasts, Peter smiled at her with an expression of pure abandon.

  There was a moment for a condom and then he was in her. Jennifer reveled in the combined wash of body and mind. His intensity was a like a roller coaster dive and the heat of his energy rolled through her body, pushing her toward another climax. Her fingers dug into his back and as Peter came hard within her, her own orgasm shot through her, sending a blinding set of fireworks through her nervous system.

  Peter eased onto the mattress beside her and gave her a slow sleepy kiss, fingers tangling in her hair.

  "You are positively delicious," he whispered.

  ***

  The phone rang at two am, and Peter sleepily groped for it. "Vithoulkas," he answered. One of P's people had been critically injured on an op in Atlanta. The local hospital had stabilized her but now strange problems were cropping up and the doctors were at a loss as to why. There had been some sort of miscommunication and the woman was currently being airlifted back to the Virginia-based complex. "Okay, I'll mobilize the team here. Damn, I wish somebody had told me the moment she got to the Atlanta hospital. I would've flown there; the risk would've had been lower." Peter swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran his hands down over his face.

  Jennifer sat up in the bed. "Problems?"

  "Yeah, big problems. One of our telepaths, Isabelle Rea, was stabbed in Atlanta. She was sent there to help on an arms trafficking case. Some moron in the ATF

  made the decision to transport her back here, rather than trying to get me to her. It's bad." Peter dragged out a pair of scrubs from his dresser. "I need to call our trauma surgeon and get him here as soon as possible."

  "P has a trauma surgeon?"

  "Yeah, he's a pretty decent empath, no actual healing talent on the psi level, but he's really good in the OR."

  "Anything you want me to do? Or just stay out of the way and try to go back to sleep?"

  "I… If you want to come down to the infirmary in a while, if I get a break, I'd kind of like to have you around. If it's bad I like to have someone to touch," Peter said hesitantly. He wasn't sure how comfortable she was in the middle of potential medical chaos.

  "Sure, I'll take a shower and get dressed and meet you there."

  ***

  At the beginning of the transport Isabelle Rea had been stable. By the time she arrived at the Division P complex, her vitals were plummeting. Peter and Craig, the surgeon, scrambled to re-stabilize her with little success. Sandra, who was the head nurse, and a corpsman named Trevor had also arrived to help. Peter had both hands on her when she coded. Fuck, oh please no, he pleaded internally as Craig grabbed for the defibrillator paddles.

  "Charging," snapped Craig. "Clear!" Peter lifted his hands free as the jolt twitched Isabelle's body. Nothing.

  They tried six more times, each time Peter pouring as much energy into her dying body as he could summon.

  Finally, Craig looked at Peter with sorrow in his eyes.

  "I think we have to call it," Craig said. Peter only nodded, unable to bring himself to say the words. He stood up to turn away and the room spun into alarming darkness as Craig began to say, "Time of death is…"

  ***

  On the far side of the room where the desks were, Jennifer watched in rapt misery as Peter and the rest of the medical people made every possible attempt to save the life of the injured woman. Peter was drenched in sweat, his scrubs clinging in dark splotches to his body. Her heart leaped into her throat when she saw Peter fall to the floor.

  "Fucking he
ll! Sandra, grab a gurney. Trevor, help me get him up," the surgeon ordered. He and the corpsman lifted Peter's limp form up onto the elevated stretcher that Sandra hastily pushed forward. "Sandra, oxygen and get his B.P. Trev get a blood glucose and a pulse-ox on him."

  There was a controlled flurry of activity and Jennifer clenched her fists, willing herself not to dash in her lover's direction. There was nothing she could do to help.

  "B.P.'s 90 over 48," said Sandra.

  "Blood glucose?" Craig demanded.

  "Forty-six," replied Trevor.

  "Jesus," muttered the doctor. "Okay, I need a bag of heavy dextrose. Trevor, do what you can to stabilize him." He grabbed a tourniquet and a 16 gauge needle to start an IV from a nearby bucket. Jennifer could feel tears burning in her eyes. "Sandra, get his temp, too."

  "One hundred and four."

  "IV line's in. Trev, any sign of consciousness?"

  "No," the corpsman answered.

  "Give him two minutes, then I want another blood pressure."

  Jennifer wrapped her arms around her body in fear.

  Was Peter going to die, too?

  "His pressure's 92 over 50," said Sandra. "No real change, but at least it's not dropping any further."

  "I should have realized he was hitting the danger zone. He's absolutely drenched in sweat." Craig's hand skimmed across Peter's forehead. He picked up a spring loaded lancet and pricked one of Peter's fingers. He popped the test strip in the glucometer.

  "Any better?" asked Trevor.

  "Forty-seven," replied Craig. "I have an unfortunate suspicion it's going to take quite a while to get him back in the normal range. Oh, and somebody's going to have to notify Isabelle's family, or next of kin."

  "That sad task usually falls in Stephen's lap," said Sandra. "But it's four in the morning, and there's no hurry in passing on the grief. It can wait a couple of hours." She walked to the other gurney and slowly pulled the sheet over Isabelle's body. "I didn't really know her. Did Peter?"

  "I have no idea, but he always seems to know everybody at least a little," replied Trevor. "Speaking of which…" Trevor called across to the far side of the room. "I take it you're close to Peter?"

  Jennifer was rattled. She had been carefully quiet in her anxiety, afraid she would do something to make the whole situation worse.

  "I'm Jennifer Sebastiano. I… I'm Peter's girlfriend,"

  Jen admitted. She supposed it was true, well, sort of anyway. Tears were escaping down her cheeks. "He asked me to come and wait for him. He said he wanted somebody to touch when he was done."

  "I understand why," said Trevor. "But I don't think he expected things to get quite this bad."

  "Should I leave?" Jennifer asked, her voice sounded hoarse. She didn't want to leave but if it would help him in some way…

  "No, not at all. As soon as we can get him out of the danger zone, I think it will help to have you touch him.

  Yeah, he knows all of us, but if he's emotionally attached to you that's even better. I'm betting this is going to trigger at least a little bit of psi-shock in him,"

  said Craig.

  ***

  It took half an hour for Peter's blood glucose levels to climb up past the fifties and his blood pressure to stabilize. Craig and Trevor took measurements at fifteen minute intervals. Sandra sat with Jennifer and tried to reassure her that Peter was improving even if it was slower than desired. There was still no sign of conscious response from Peter, but the two men seemed to think that Peter was stabilizing. Peter was carefully transferred to a bed and all the monitors and IVs set up. Trevor offered to move Isabelle's body to the tiny refrigerated room that occasionally functioned as a morgue. Craig squeezed the corpsman's shoulder in sympathy and agreed that it was probably a good idea.

  ***

  "Jennifer, he's doing a little better. Now would be a good time to come over and hold him. I'm betting he's going to be pretty disoriented when he wakes up," said Craig. Jen pulled herself together and walked to the bed.

  Craig motioned for her to sit on the gurney. She sat gingerly, mindful of the wires and tubes. She took hold of Peter's hand. His fingers were chilly and limp in hers, his face very pale. Jennifer wasn't sure she'd ever seen him so still. Even when he was relaxed, she always thought of him as full of restless energy.

  "Will he wake up soon?" she asked softly.

  "I hope so, but realistically I'm not sure. I've never seen him lose consciousness because of using his healing talent. He told me that it happened once when he was in high school and he was in a coma for three days,"

  the surgeon told her.

  "Is he in a coma now?"

  "No, he's not that deeply unconscious. I see a flinch response every time I draw blood from his fingers. My best guess is he burned through almost all of the readily available energy in his body in the span of less than an hour. It's taking some real effort for his body to recover." Craig touched her arm. "Try not to worry too badly. He is recovering, and I have no intention of leaving until he wakes up. Why don't you curl up against him? Your presence may help steady him."

  Jen nodded, tears threatening again.

  Another hour passed. Jennifer lay with her arm around Peter's body, her forehead gently pressed to his cheek, worrying and praying. There was a slight sound and Peter inhaled a little deeper.

  "Peter?" she whispered and stroked her fingers gently on his chest. She could feel the sluggish wave of confusion and physical discomfort as he was struggling toward consciousness. Seated on a stool a few feet away, Trevor was taking his turn keeping watch.

  "Keep talking to him and keep touching him," Trevor suggested.

  "Peter, it's Jennifer. Come on, honey, wake up for me. Let me know you're okay. I'm worried about you."

  She pulled his hand to her face and kissed his fingers.

  His fingers flexed a little and his eyelids fluttered, but didn't open more than a fraction. Peter's lips moved and he made a sound that might have been a word. She could sense that he was fighting to compose a thought.

  Jennifer kept on rubbing her fingers against his skin, face, hands, arms.

  Peter lay breathing, eyes just barely open for a few more minutes before he mumbled, "Dy…ing."

  "You're not dying Peter. You'll be fine," Jennifer said, kissing him gently and hoping she wasn't lying.

  "Belle…so bad…" Peter whispered.

  "She didn't make it," Trevor said sadly. "And you have been scaring the fucking crap out of me, and everybody else here."

  "Feel… sick."

  "Yeah, I'm not surprised. Craig thinks you're apt to feel like you got hit by a bus for the next couple days.

  Your blood glucose tanked down to forty-six. You've been unconscious for more than three hours."

  "Couldn't… tried… couldn't save… tried so hard…"

  Peter's voice was a tight hoarse whisper and Jennifer could feel the grief and frustration churning his tiny amount of emotional control into near hysteria.

  "Shh, it's okay. You risked yourself trying to save her. You did everything possible. I don't want to lose you, too," Jennifer murmured and hugged him a little tighter. His eyes squeezed shut and a few tears seeped from the corners. She lovingly brushed them away with her thumb. She knew if he had had enough energy he would have cried. Instead, he slowly went limp in her arms again. Trevor's hand circled Peter's wrist, checking him.

  "It's okay. He's in normal sleep now. Flat out exhausted but just sleeping," Trevor assured her.

  Jennifer brushed Peter's hair back off his forehead and placed a careful kiss there. Belatedly, she thought of Danny. It was five thirty in the morning and Danny was in Chicago, where it was an hour earlier. Would it do any good to wake him up and tell him Peter was injured, for lack of better description? Probably not, she’d be better off waiting a couple of hours.

  ***

  Carefully easing away from the spot where she was curled beside Peter in the hospital bed, Jennifer stood up to stretch. He had woken just briefly,
an hour after the first time, fingers weakly clutching at her arm. She saw the little flits of memory of Peter watching Craig trying to shock Isabelle back to life, and felt the anguish. Peter sank back into sleep with Jennifer cradling him in her arms. He still looked incredibly pale. It was morning and Craig and Trevor were satisfied that Peter was stable.

  They had shooed Sandra off to bed and Trevor was napping sprawled across another bed. Craig was on the far side of the room near the desks, talking to Stephen Benford.

  Jennifer noticed that it was now almost eight and as she began to consider calling Danny, the phone vibrated in her pocket and she dragged it out. The display said D.

  Valentine.

  "Hello," she said with a little apprehension.

  Delivering bad news was hard.

  "Hey Jen, have you seen Peter this morning? I tried his number a couple of times and even tried the phone in his room via the switchboard. No luck."

  "He's in the infirmary."

  "I tried that number too, but all I got was voice mail."

  "No, he's in the infirmary as a patient," Jennifer said.

  There was silence at the other end.

  "What happened?" Danny asked.

  "Really late last night, a helicopter brought some lady named Isabelle here. I heard that she'd been hurt really badly on an assignment. Peter was bent out of shape that they were transporting her here rather than sending him there. I don't really understand the details but she died.

  Craig, Trevor and Sandra, they were all working on her but… nothing. Peter was doing his thing. As best I understand from what Craig told me, he burned out.

  Something like used up so much energy he collapsed.