Braided Lives

by AR Moler

He was unconscious for three hours. He's hooked up to IVs and monitors and stuff now, but for a little while even Trevor and Craig seemed pretty worried."

  There was such a long silence from the phone that Jennifer almost thought they'd been disconnected.

  "Fuck," Danny said softly.

  "Craig thinks Peter's stable now. He regained consciousness for a few minutes around five thirty, and then he woke just briefly an hour later. I don't know if he's totally out of danger, but everybody seems to be pretty calm and just keeping an eye on him now."

  "Please… Are you with him?" Danny asked. His voice sounded tight.

  "Less than two feet away. I spent a couple hours holding him. Craig seemed to think it was helpful."

  "God. My plane doesn't leave until eight tonight. I can't get back there until the early hours of tomorrow morning."

  "Try not to worry too much. Like I said, he seems to be stable. I really should have called you last night, but I was so focused on him. And it was oh-dark-thirty, I didn't think it would be helpful to wake you and tell you about all this when you were so far away."

  "It… it would have been okay, but I see your point.

  Damn… What exactly does stable mean?"

  "From me, the art teacher, whose medical knowledge is kind of minimal, he's exhausted and sleeping. They've got him hooked up to IVs and monitors and Trevor and Craig are checking his vitals every hour. I got the impression they expect Peter to sleep most of the rest of the day."

  "When he woke up, was he coherent?" Danny asked.

  "Sort of. He was a little disoriented and then really upset about the woman's death."

  "If he wakes… When he wakes up… If he's feeling okay enough, can you have him call me?" asked Danny.

  The sheer stress in the man's voice made Jennifer wish she could reach through the phone and comfort him.

  "I will. I'll call back in a couple hours anyway, and let you know if anything's changed."

  "Thanks."

  "We'll be waiting for you when you get back."

  ***

  It might have been a voice that woke him, or maybe just a sound. Peter felt his body jerk and his first thought was that he should be trying to pour more energy into Isabelle's failing nervous system. There was nothing left to give, and his breathing hitched unevenly. A warm hand cupped against his cheek. It was soft and familiar.

  "You're okay. Just try to relax," said a female voice.

  Jen.

  Peter opened his eyes slowly, trying to sort reality in manageable chunks for his brain. His body felt leaden and weak. He could feel the IV line in his arm and the pulse-oximeter clipped to his finger. Jennifer was curled on the edge of the hospital bed beside him, looking tired and concerned.

  Little flits of memory waged war in his head and he remembered feeling Isabelle dying under his hands.

  Peter squeezed his eyes shut. His breathing hitched again and he felt torn between wanting to pound his fists against a wall and wishing he could curl into a ball and try to forget the sensation of feeling Isabelle die. In the background, one of the monitors was stuttering with the erratic rhythm of his pulse. A hand closed on his wrist, and he felt the sharp analytical prod of Trevor's mind push against his. In combination with being pulled into the worried, almost frantic embrace of Jen's arms, Peter's body began to calm.

  "Peter, look at me. Let me know you're holding it together at least a little bit," said Trevor. Forcing his eyes open, Peter met Trevor's gaze. "Do you know where you are?"

  "Infirmary," whispered Peter.

  "Do you remember what happened with Isabelle?'

  "Yeah."

  "Count to a hundred for me by fives."

  "Huh? Oh…" Peter slowly realized Trevor was trying to make sure there was no obvious cognitive damage, and so he counted.

  "Beyond feeling absolutely wiped out, anything else strike you as off or bad?"

  Peter sluggishly drew on his healing senses and let them skim down through his body.

  "Just… so weak. Doubt I could stand up," Peter answered. He was probably missing something, but couldn't place it.

  "Don't even think about it. Last thing you need is a face plant on the floor. Are you up for some food?"

  "Maybe one of the protein shakes."

  "Mmm, yeah that's probably a good idea." Trevor left, undoubtedly to dig through the infirmary fridge where Peter usually kept them. Peter curled against Jennifer's body a little closer, one hand tightening in the fabric of her shirt.

  "I wish you'd stop scaring the crap out of me. Are you having the whole psi-shock syndrome thing? Trevor said he thought it might happen," she said. Her lips brushed along his temple in a soft kiss.

  "Yeah… a little," he admitted reluctantly. He could feel his body feebly rebelling against his attempt to stay calm. It was grief and frustration and an alarming sense of being lost. Without Jennifer there anchoring him, he wondered if he would be swept under by the chaos. He wished Danny was there, too.

  Trevor returned with a plastic bottle and a bendy straw. Peter managed to drink maybe half the contents before his stomach threatened to rebel.

  "No more," he murmured.

  Jen's fingers were gently carding through his hair. "I talked to Danny on the phone. He's… well, freaked is probably the best description. If you think you can handle it, calling him would be a good idea." She fished the phone out of her pocket.

  "I need to talk to him," replied Peter. "Even if it's only for a couple minutes."

  Jennifer dialed the phone and handed it to him.

  "Jennifer, is he any better? Is he conscious?"

  answered Danny without any prelude.

  "Yeah, I'm conscious," responded Peter.

  "What the fucking hell happened?" demanded Danny.

  "Jennifer told me an agent named Isabelle died. Does she mean Isabelle Rea?"

  "Yes."

  There was a good thirty second silence, then Danny muttered, "Shit."

  "It was an all around cluster fuck by the ATF. I don't know but half the details. By the time she got here it was already probably too late."

  "Okay, over and done. What about you? Are you okay?"

  "I overdid it, and passed out," Peter said.

  "Bullshit. Jennifer said you were unconscious for at least three hours. How bad, Peter? How close did you come to going with her?"

  "I… don't know."

  "Are you still in the infirmary?" Danny asked.

  "Yes."

  "Stay there. Keep Jennifer close. I'll be back as soon as I can. My flight doesn't leave until eight. I tried to see if I could switch to an earlier one, but so far I haven't had any luck."

  "I'll get by." Peter's voice was beginning to sound thick, he was so tired.

  "Let me talk to Jen." Peter passed the phone back.

  "I think he's going to fall asleep again," said Jennifer.

  Whatever Danny said to Jennifer in response made her smile. "I will," she said and thumbed off the phone.

  Peter was almost asleep; the tiny exertion of talking and drinking had drained away what little energy he had.

  "Danny wants me to kick your ass if you don't behave and take it really easy," she whispered.

  Peter managed a slight chuckle.

  ***

  His watch read oh-one-thirty-five as Danny walked down the hallway toward the infirmary. The obligatory security people had been on duty at the main gate to Division P and he had seen one of the guards who patrolled the grounds at night. Otherwise the whole place was very quiet. He expected Peter to be asleep, Jennifer too, but he needed to lay eyes on Peter and reassure himself that his lover was okay. Well, maybe that should be 'was going to be okay'.

  He tread softly as he went into the infirmary. There was a small light on at one of the desks at the side of the room. Sandra was playing some game on the computer, one ear bud in. She nodded at Danny and pointed toward the middle of the opposite side where curtains had been partially drawn around a bed.

  Danny walked t
oward the indicated area. Two hospital beds had been zip-tied together, which was actually pretty normal around there where touch was often crucial in treatment of psi shock. Peter was wound tightly around Jennifer, spooned against her back.

  Danny stood motionless, just watching them sleep, then his gaze wandered to the steel door at the far end of the room. Isabelle was one of their own. She'd been brought onboard before Danny had been given his current position. He hadn't known her well, but he had known her.

  He crossed to that door and pulled it open, a rush of cold hitting him from inside the tiny room. It held a single gurney covered by a sheet. He walked inside and stood by the covered form. He wasn't certain he really wanted to do this, but he felt honor bound to face her.

  Danny drew the sheet back. Isabelle's features were relaxed, her skin the grayish white of cold and death. He had been the one who'd sent her on that assignment. Just one more agent, one more assignment. There was no way to predict when things were likely to go horribly wrong. The whole fiasco in Meridian was ample evidence of that. Unless someone like Reed Sawyer with precognitive Talents snagged a glimpse, everybody else was pretty much doomed to live with reality as it played out. There could have been a second body. It could have been Peter.

  Hands shaking, Danny pulled the sheet up. Outside the walk in refrigerator, he leaned back on the closed door, chest so tight he felt like he could barely breathe.

  Sandra came toward him.

  "Are you okay?" she asked quietly. He nodded. "I can get you a cup of coffee," she said.

  He knew she was only trying to offer him a little solace and normality. Before he could respond, Danny sensed the presence he so deeply wanted. Peter was coming toward him, padding quietly across the tile barefoot. Danny held out a hand and pulled Peter into his arms, sliding down the length of the door until Danny's butt hit the floor. Peter's legs straddled his and they sat chest to chest with Danny's arms wrapped around his lover as tightly as he dared. Sandra quietly left them alone.

  The little undercurrent thrum of energy that Danny always associated with touching Peter was barely present. The man felt fragile in his arms, not a word he would have generally associated with Peter.

  "Love you," whispered Danny. "Love you so much."

  "I love you, too. I'm glad you're back." Peter's face nestled against Danny's shoulder and blissfully he could feel the warm flow of Peter's breath against his neck.

  Not like Isabelle. Danny swallowed hard and hugged Peter a little tighter. They sat there for maybe ten minutes, before Peter spoke again.

  "No offense, hon, but I need to take a leak," Peter whispered.

  Danny slowly let go and Peter got up off his lap.

  Worry crept back again when he realized how shuffling and unsteady Peter's steps were. Danny's long legs allowed him to catch up to his lover in just a few steps.

  Peter gave him an irritated sideways glance.

  "You plan on holding my dick for me?" Peter groused.

  "Not unless you want me to. Mostly I was trying to make sure you didn't end up face down on the bathroom floor. You can barely walk."

  "I'll be fine."

  Danny hovered outside the bathroom for the couple of minutes it took Peter. Coming out of the bathroom, Peter's steps were even slower, and Danny slipped an arm around his lover.

  "Come on, you need to be in bed," Danny said, expecting more complaints. Peter was silent. In some ways Peter’s silence was more disturbing to Danny than Peter's shambling steps toward the bed.

  Jennifer was sitting up in the neighboring bed now, arms hugged loosely around her knees, unbound hair a dark waterfall around her shoulders in the faint shadowy light from across the room.

  "I'm glad you're back," she said to Danny as Peter crawled into the bed beside her. Danny thought she looked almost as worn out as Peter. "I'll leave the two of you some privacy." She began to slide out of bed on the opposite side. In the middle of his concern for Peter, Danny was shocked. He leaned across Peter and grabbed her wrist.

  "Where are you going?" he demanded. She hesitated.

  Danny suddenly realized she assumed she was a stop gap measure in a crisis. He glanced at Peter, who appeared to be on the verge of tears.

  "Having you here was not just making do until Danny got home. I need you as badly as I need him," Peter whispered. Danny sensed emotional pain bordering on hysteria from his lover.

  "Please, please don't go," Danny begged. "He wants you here… I need you too."

  Jennifer slowly stretched out beside Peter again.

  Danny relaxed a little. He toed off his shoes and laid down facing Peter's back. It was a bit of a tight fit, three adults in the space of two hospital beds. Sliding an arm under Peter's neck, he wrapped it down over Peter's torso, then he reached across and curled his fingers around Jennifer's hand. Peter was practically wedged between them, but it must have been a good thing, because Danny felt some of the tension begin to leave his lover's body.

  ***

  Hot water sluiced through Jennifer's hair in the shower. The general consensus between the medical people of Division P seemed to be that Peter was stable and out of danger, but that it would probably take several more days for him to regain his normal strength. A meeting was scheduled for the afternoon to discuss the events leading to Isabelle Rea's death. Jennifer wondered how hard reviewing those events was going to be for Peter, or Danny.

  Jesus, she wished she could sort out her feelings for them. Here she was back to the same set of problems she'd been thrashing through her brain for days now. No, make that weeks. She was still volleying back and forth between wanting to actively be part of their lives and feeling like a third wheel.

  Danny had begged her to come back to Peter's quarters after she was done showering and changing.

  Peter was supposed to be resting and Jen wondered if he was likely to be as bad a patient as Danny had been.

  ***

  Feet propped on the coffee table, Peter sat on the sofa with his laptop on his legs, staring at the screen. He was making a fairly vain attempt to start a report on what had occurred with Isabelle. Stephen Benford had been dispatched to Memphis to notify her family in person. Peter had given momentary thought to offering to perform that sad task, but when even walking across the room left him with muscles shaking so hard he could barely remain standing, jumping on a plane was not an option.

  Danny was hovering, making phone calls, checking email, staying within sight of his lover. Peter's concentration was crap, and he didn't seem to be able to string more than about three words together in the report. He felt numb, hollowed out, like all the energy he'd poured into Isabelle's body had left some sort aching void. Danny came to settle on the sofa beside Peter.

  "Talk to me," prompted Danny. Peter just shook his head. There weren't any words that worked. Danny slid an arm around Peter's shoulders, pulling him close. Peter felt the intimate brush of Danny's mind against his own, and promptly shut his shields. Danny frowned.

  "Keeping me out is not going to help," Danny said.

  Peter set the laptop on the table. He didn't want Danny's help. He didn't want to feel better, he wanted to hurt, to bleed… to feel something!

  "Leave me the fuck alone," Peter snapped and stalked out of his quarters.

  ***

  Danny sat immobile for a minute. What the hell? He knew what it was like to lose people. Isabelle hadn't been the first. She probably wouldn't be the last. Danny had watched more than one person die in his life. He knew guilt and anger and anguish. He'd even crawled inside a bottle a couple of times. Was Peter likely to do something stupid? Shit, maybe he should have brought the bottle of tequila to Peter's quarters and gotten him rip roaring drunk. The healer hadn't shut Danny out of his head in any private moment since Kosovo.

  ***

  Trudging along the hallway of the residential wing, Peter had absolutely no clue where he was going. Just away. Away from what? It wasn't like he could actually escape from the reality of letting one of
his people die under his hands. He'd fucked up. She shouldn't have died, but she had. He probably should have died and he hadn't. "Peter!" Someone shouted his name. He glanced back. It was Danny, jogging toward him.

  "Leave me alone! I don't want to talk about it! And I don't want your help!" Peter raged.

  Danny laid a hand on Peter's shoulder. That was it.

  ***

  Danny saw the blow coming. Peter didn't make any attempt to disguise the desperate anger driven attack. Danny blocked the punch fairly easily, but then missed the second one. It hit his mouth and he immediately tasted blood amidst the pain. Shit. He took Peter to the ground, trying to tread the fine line between restraining the man and defending himself. Peter thrashed and struggled for a minute or more before going still.

  His breathing was a series of ragged uneven gasps in Danny's arms, where they lay sprawled on the floor of the hallway.

  "Are you through?" Danny asked.

  "Uh-huh," Peter mumbled.

  Danny untangled himself and got to his feet. He held out a hand to Peter to help him up. The look that Peter gave him was raw, but the shields were still firmly in place, and Danny couldn't decipher any good starting place for helping his friend.

  Peter got up on his own, but then stood in the center of the hallway, shaking.

  "Will you please come back inside and sit down at least?" Danny pleaded.

  Peter gave a tiny nod and they both went back into the apartment.

  ***

  Jesus God, leave two guys alone in a crisis that didn't involve guns and they'd be sure to screw it up. When Jennifer arrived at Peter's quarters, hair in a long damp braid and clean clothes on, Peter was sleeping in a tight ball on the sofa and Danny was in the bathroom cleaning blood off his face.

  "What the hell happened?" Jennifer demanded. "I thought you two were going to hang out and let Peter rest."

  "I tried to get him to talk about what happened. First he clammed up, then he went stomping down the hall.

  We ended up in a fist fight -- well sort of, anyway. He started swinging and I… I took him down as carefully as I could," Danny explained.