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Title: Operation Under the Radar
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: Post-Black Hawk Down, The Long Haul
Rating: PG-13 ish
Warning: Disturbing medical situation. No quick fixes.
Disclaimer: Not true. Not a word of it. Not infringing on anyone's copyright because, really, no money is made and these are my versions of archetypal characters anyway.
Note: Comes right after Need to Know. McKnight has been staying on base for a training course he was running, so the last time McKnight and Grimes were together was A Fucking Order. Links to Soldier Porn are here>.
Personage of importance without whom the story would not exist: I hesitate to call redjacket the beta for this story, because she has not seen the actual words on the page (or screen as it were) but over the last while she has listened patiently to me, allowed me to bounce ideas around, made suggestions, and generally put up with me yakking about it as I work it through in my head and hers. So this is (finally, for I'm sure she's sick of it by now) for redjacket.
Operation under the Radar
Dwayne Carter glanced from the medical chart to the patient in bed number three. He didn't have to be a doctor to know a head injury when he saw one. Bad luck. But still lucky. The big guy had shielded him from the worst of it. His brain would be messed up, but there was little, outward physical damage. Of course, there was no way of knowing exactly what would happen when he woke. If he woke. Maybe he would be permanently dazed, or unable to think of the words he needed to say. Maybe he would forget everything every ten minutes, or be inexplicably angry all the time. Dwayne had seen it all in his years as a nurse. Most heartbreaking were the ones who knew something was wrong but could not articulate it.
Dwayne replaced the chart and moved to the next room, to bed number four. This one was a tough bastard. Had refused painkillers, so far. Dwayne would have taken them. Hell, he would have demanded them. Coming out of the anaesthetic must have been hell.
"Jaw…" the patient said. Hard to understand through the oxygen mask. Dwayne adjusted the mask so it wouldn't dig into the sutures.
Nice work. Dwayne picked up this guy's chart. Oh, yeah, Doctor Freeman. She had extensive plastics experience. There would be scars, but not the kind that make people cringe. She'd probably taken the same care stitching up the shoulder wounds. Dwayne would see for himself in a couple of hours when he changed the dressings. Patient number four's hands, though, they wouldn't be so pretty. Chuck said it had taken hours to pick all the gravel out. But Chuck was prone to exaggeration. I may have taken as little as twenty minutes. Either way, this guy wouldn't be playing piano any time soon.
One blue eye looked up at him. The other was swollen shut.
"I'm Dwayne. I'll be your night nurse," Dwayne said.
The eye didn't waver.
"That was a very brave thing you did, shielding the lieutenant," Dwayne said. "You're lucky you were wearing your helmet." The helmet that was now peppered with dents and scratches. It was sitting in a box in the corner. Dwayne had seen it. He was lucky that helmet held up.
And lucky that that he was so big. Size helps in these kinds of things. There was damage, but nothing had been able to penetrate deep enough to hit any major organs. The soft tissue damage had been severe, but the notes on the chart said that the reattachment of the tendons had been a success. Time would tell how much range of movement would be retained.
That one blue eye bore into Dwayne. Bruised lips moved under the oxygen mask. "John…"
"Lieutenant Johnstone is stable," Dwayne assured him. No need to mention the brain injury this early. "It will be a rough recovery, but he'll be okay." Better than the driver, whom the patient had not asked about.
But wasn't that just like an officer, to ask about the other officer and not the enlisted man?
Still, in spite of his extensive injuries, this guy had crawled over to drag Private Price clear of the debris. Even though he could barely see and only had one arm working. All in all, one tough bastard. They don't make officers like that any more.
" I know you can't use the call bell, so I'll be checking on you as often as I can. I've got rounds to do, then I'll be back. And we'll change those dressings in a couple of hours." Dwayne checked that the IV was flowing freely, and jotted the vitals down on the chart. "Sir, I really think you should reconsider the pain medication. With the extent of your injuries, it will help your recovery if you can rest easier."
No, no pain meds.
Dwayne looked down at the man on the bed. "You can't hear a word I'm saying to you, can you, Colonel McKnight?"
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McKnight hurt everywhere.
That was the only thing he knew for sure.
Some places hurt more than others. His knees. His hands. His shoulder burned and ached the way his neck had after he got shot, but he didn't think he'd been shot. There had been metal involved, though. He could feel it, smell it, taste it. Shrapnel? Maybe shrapnel. Or maybe that was the anaesthetic wearing off. He knew from past experience that he was one of the lucky ten percent who get that awful metallic taste from the anaesthetic wearing off. A sickly metallic tang throughout his mouth, starting when the drugs lost effectiveness. That would explain why everything hurt so acutely.
Unexploded ordinance. Who had been responsible for clearing that road? When McKnight found out, he was going the rip his balls off. You're supposed to clear the fucking roads after every field exercise. That corner of the camp hadn't been used for large-scale training since preparations for the invasion of… McKnight couldn't remember where.
Whatever it was, it had been buried just beneath the surface of the road. How the fuck had it got there? It exploded, the jeep rolled, there was another explosion. He couldn't remember hearing it. Did vehicles really explode like that, outside movies and war zones, with a delay after impact? He guessed they did, because that one had and he was here, in a hospital. Fucking military hospital.
There was no way Grimes would be able to get in here to see him.
Not that McKnight really wanted Grimes to see him like this, all fucked up. McKnight wanted to ask for him, tried to ask for him - ineffective. But the medic adjusted something one his face, and he didn't hurt quite as much there, for a second or two.
What about the kid? Price? Rice? He'd been thrown clear of the vehicle. He was okay. No, it was Johnstone who had been thrown clear, with McKnight next to him. On top of him, really. He hoped he hadn't done him any serious damage. Johnstone was just a scrawny young guy, fresh out of military school. And Rice. Or Price. Damn it, he was practically fresh out of basic training. Just a kid. McKnight had dragged him away from the vehicle. Was he here too?
His head was clear now. He could think. Remember some things. That was a good sign.
Harm had been done to him. He could tell from how much and how deep it hurt. His hands, fuck, his hands. He couldn’t move them. They were bandaged. That was it – bandages restricting movement.
There was a mask on his face. And his face was swollen. That aching on one side, the other numb. Not entirely numb. Tingling. Coming out of a local. Local and general? How fucked up was he? He could taste the anaesthetic stronger now, along with the shrapnel. Or because of the shrapnel. How bad was it?
There was light, so he could see, but only out of one eye. The other one must be covered with a bandage. No, no bandages on his face. He could feel the air move, just slightly, but no temperature differential. The movement of the air against his skin hurt. There were lights, moving lines… he was in intensive care, or critical care. Recovery. Some place where they regulate the temperature so it won't traumatize you, but lots of circulation, so the air is constantly filtered, constantly cleaned of your sweat and dirt and germs and… was he in a burn ward?
No. He'd be screaming from the pain if he was in a burn ward. He might be screaming. That might be why the medic looked so worried. No, if he was screaming, they'd take the mask off him, wouldn't they?
There was only one medic, so he'd already been through the trauma unit. This was recovery. He was hurt and his hands were bandaged and he had only one eye. But the other one was there. It might not be working, but it was there. He knew it was there, because it hurt.
Everything hurt.
The medic or nurse or whatever he was stood over McKnight. His mouth was moving. McKnight could see him. He looked at the chart in his hand. He didn't want to look at McKnight's face. His mouth was moving but McKnight couldn't hear a word he was saying.
Not a fucking word.
In fact, McKnight couldn't hear a damn thing.
That happens sometimes. A loud blast. Percussion deafness. Temporary deafness. Happened all the time. He always got better.
Mostly.
In spite of repeated exposure to dangerous sound levels, McKnight's hearing wasn't that bad. Sometimes he had to lean in to hear clearly. He'd done that on purpose, the night Grimes had left the army, so he could get a little closer. He wished the taste and smell of the anaesthetic wasn't so overpowering. Then he would be able to imagine the smell of Grimes that night, all clean and fresh in his civilian clothes, the hint of opportunity in his sweat, the tang of a little fear, maybe not fear but apprehension, the musk of arousal, making McKnight's skin prickle.
So, sometimes he had to turn his head to hear out of his good ear. Lots of people had to do that. Which one was his good ear? He couldn't remember. Did he have a good ear anymore?
If he didn't have a good ear, then he couldn't turn his head to hear better, tilt it down, turn to the side, feel soft lips, a whisper.
He could not be deaf. He simply could not. That was an order. If he were deaf, then how could Grimes lick up the side of his neck and breathe softly against his ear and say those things? Dirty things. Tender things. Things that made McKnight go a little crazy.
McKnight tried to speak again. It made his whole face hurt.
The medic was talking again but McKnight couldn't hear him. This fuck never shut up, even though he had to know McKnight couldn't hear him. Go ahead and talk, McKnight thought. Won't do you any good.
He was pointing at the IV bag.
He wanted to know if he needed something for the pain, but the pain wasn't that bad. The deafness was worse.
The deafness would mean never hearing Grimes say, "Yes, sir," ever again. Never hearing Grimes moan when McKnight slid a finger inside him, or beg for McKnight to let him come, or say his name when he came. Never coming home to hear music on the stereo, and knowing instantly what mood Grimes was in because Edith Piaf meant Grimes needed a strict hand to get him out of whatever funk he was in, and discipline always cheered him up, which McKnight always enjoyed immensely, and T. Rex meant Grimes was going to dance for him, which was even more fun.
The medic kept pointing at the IV. He wanted to give him something for the pain.
Well.
Fuck.
If he was never going to hear Grimes' voice again, then the pain was beyond his capacity to endure. He nodded his assent.
Dwayne checked all the monitors. Nice that the ward wasn't too full. They could give every patient the attention he needed. The corridor was half-lit and quiet. Everyone was tucked in, sleeping soundly, except for Price. Chuck was with Price, on the other side of the nursing station. Price kept waking up and moaning. Chuck was there to keep him calm. He was good at that. He seemed like a jerk sometimes, but he had an amazing bedside manner when it counted. Dwayne's forte was more keeping track of numerous patients at once. It would be easy tonight.
The peace of the hallway was disturbed by the opening of the elevator doors.
A tall woman exited the elevator approached the desk, a striking-looking woman with silvery hair piled up on her head and shocking blue eyes, the same color as his patient's eye.
"My keys," she said. "I was here for my brother, and they asked me to wait down the hall while they got him settled. I must have lost them there, in the waiting room."
She had to be the Colonel's sister. The blue of her eyes matched the blue of his eye. "It's past visiting hours, ma'am."
"Yes, I know that, young man." Her face took on a scolding, school teacher expression. "I need my keys. I got all the way home and I couldn't get inside. I could call a locksmith, but that ring has the only keys I have to my brother's house. How am I going to get his things for him without the keys?"
Dwayne thought about pointing out that Colonel McKnight would not be needing any personal belongings for quite some time. Instead, he said, "I'm sorry but the waiting room is closed for the night." Actually closed, as in locked tight. He didn't even think he had a key for it. That was the janitor's responsibility.
They always locked it at night. There were only a few couches and a cheap TV inside, but they had to take precautions, because sometimes, when they were visiting their buddies, soldiers could get rowdy. That's how Chuck had explained it to him.
The colonel's sister's face crumbled, and she looked like she was going to cry. She started talking about how they only had each other and she had to take care of him. He was her little brother. They were the only two left alive in the whole family. By the time she got to the part about having raised him since their mother died in childbirth, for his whole life, Dwayne cracked. "Okay, ma'am. Let me do my rounds and then I can go downstairs and see if I can locate the night janitor. He might have the key to the waiting room. You can stay here."
There was no worry that this lady would get rowdy. Might even do her good to sit with her brother, see him resting more comfortably. Poor lady. She'd probably left the hospital and gone for dinner, maybe a fortifying drink, and then got home to find herself locked out, in the rain, then trekked all the way back here, not thinking straight at all. It would have been so much easier to call the damn locksmith. But everything was calm, so he could go find the janitor for her. Chuck could handle any emergencies. It would only be a couple of minutes.
She hovered over him while Dwayne checked on McKnight, who was out like a light.
"Oh, he's sleeping, I'm so relieved," she said. "I just know he's going to be all right, isn't he?" She looked exhausted. Imagine having only one relative at that age, and he almost gets blown to bits in a freak accident.
"I'm just going to check on Lieutenant Johnstone and then I'll track down the keys to the lounge."
"You do that, dear," she said.
"You can stay with your brother while I'm gone," Dwayne said.
"Oh, I will," she said.
Tap tap. Pause. Taptap.
Sanderson opened the door of Supply Closet 2 – A4, D-Tech field Headquarters for Operation Under the Radar.
The closet held hazmat suites and chemical spill clean-up equipment. They were unlikely to be discovered unless an emergency of greater proportions than Sanderson cared to think about occurred.
Linda McKnight stepped into the closet. She was holding herself together admirably well. In fact, Sanderson suspected, if her brother weren't lying in a hospital bed down the corridor with multiple injuries, she would be openly enjoying the clandestine elements of the operation. She'd even come up with the code knock. It wasn't a particularly inventive code knock, but it wasn't bad for a first-time civilian effort.
Grimes was not holding it together so well. To be honest, Sanderson had been a little disappointed. He'd thought Grimes would be more stoic. It had taken Grimes several minutes to get over the shock of the news and join in the preparations. He hadn't done anything stupid, but he'd been a little dazed. Good thing Sanderson and Linda and Hoot and Schmid were there to get this little operation going.
Schmid had been great. He'd got into the hospital database in record time, extracted locations and staffing information, even found an emergency preparation floor plans online. He was downstairs, diverting the night janitor. Schmid had showed no qualms at all about mounting a covert operation at the military hospital. He had seemed a bit surprised about the dire need to get Grimes in to see McKnight. He'd kept repeating, "Grimesy and Colonel McKnight? Grimesy and the Colonel?" while he was hacking the hospital computer system. That was something Schmid would simply have to adjust to.
"He's sleeping. They gave him morphine," Miss McKnight said.
"He hates painkillers," Grimes said.
"Honey, he needs them." Miss McKnight held out her arms and Grimes, to Sanderson's mild astonishment, moved into them. He slumped against her and she stroked his hair. His face rested above, not quite on, her breasts. Nice breasts, for a woman of that age.
Sanderson felt like he was intruding. "We don't have long," Sanderson said.
Grimes took a deep breath, muffled by Linda's cleavage.
That looked mighty comforting to Sanderson, to rest his head on a cushiony bosom and be held up by strong arms.
But that was not what they were there for.
Everyone knew the plan. They'd drilled it on the way over in the truck. They'd made it as simple as possible for Grimes. Sanderson hoped he didn't fuck it up. The way he'd reacted to the news had not been good. Not like someone worried. He'd acted more like someone dependent. And that meant McKnight would be the same way. That made it all the more imperative that the mission succeed.
Sanderson had a flash of memory: Malloy in a hospital bed, glaring spaces where his limbs used to be, bitter look on his face. "You're going to join Delta without me," Malloy accused.
Sanderson shook his head. Men get wounded. Some die. Life goes on. Concentrate on the mission. Malloy had made sure his death looked like an accident. Plausible deniability. That had made it possible for Sanderson to buy the house with his insurance money, the house D-Tech operated out of. He owed it to Malloy to succeed. And Malloy would have loved this operation. He would have been all over this one.
McKnight was a tough guy. He'd be fine. They just had to get Grimes through this part, the hard part. The not knowing part. And let McKnight know they were all pulling for him.
He adjusted his belt. It had been years since he'd worn his Ranger uniform. As soon as he'd gone Delta, he'd ditched the uniform in favour of unmarked tactical gear. In the field, they'd worn more comfortable clothes that any other unit. He'd been prepared, as he changed into the cammos, for the stiffness of the fabric, the bulkier cut in the legs, but he did not remember it being this restrictive around the waist. Or maybe he'd gained a bit of weight in the years since he'd been a Ranger. He'd put on some muscle, but around his waist?
Time to cut back on the danishes. He'd speak to Grimes about that, whenever Grimes was able to handle details like that again.
Miss McKnight was warning Grimes, preparing him for the shape McKnight was in. Possible deafness, shoulder injury, hands bandaged, eye shut tight. Bruising. He was hurt in a lot of places, and it looked bad. Sanderson knew not to be too upset about swelling. Swelling was just the body's natural reaction, to protect the injured area from further damage, to allow healing. Swelling could turn bad, but this was a top-notch medical facility. There would be no unfortunate incidents. Besides, Sanderson had read the pilfered medical reports. The tests were clear. There was no internal bleeding, nothing that could turn septic. Nothing that impeded circulation, so far. Negative tests. Clear tests.
It was official: McKnight was a tank.
Shit that would crush a lesser man's internal organs just bounced off him.
Tap tap. Pause. Taptap.
Hoot slipped into the room. Slithered, actually. Fuck, he'd barely opened the door at all. The man was like some kind of superhero when he was on the job, morphing into whatever was required. Now he was a cat, silent and flexible, melding into the shadows, probably seeing in the dark, stretching out all that glorious muscle into something that could slip through cracks. Later, he would be something else, if the situation required it.
"All clear," Hoot said. "Good to go."
Everyone nodded.
McKnight cracked his eye open. Blurry. Dim.
Great. Was his vision gone too? McKnight blinked the eye that worked. Still only one. No depth perception. The lights were low. There were flowers on the table. Linda would bring flowers. That was her way.
Dim. It was always twilight at night in the hospital. They'd let his sister in to see him. His sister.
But they'd never let Grimes in to see him.
Would Grimes want to see him like this?
Grimes would have panicked when he heard about this, just the way McKnight had panicked when he'd heard Grimes was in the hospital.
Or had he kept his shit together? He wouldn't have stumbled in a daze and been irrational the way McKnight had. Grimes would instantly adjust to the situation. He'd be on top of everything. He'd have ten lists written by now. He was probably sitting at the dining room table drawing up a physiotherapy schedule for injuries McKnight didn't even know he had.
No. Grimes would be as lost as McKnight had been.
Fuck, McKnight was an asshole for getting involved with someone so much younger than him, and a civilian. Grimes didn't need this. He didn't deserve to be saddled with a wounded soldier. Deaf, maybe blind, cut to pieces. The morphine was wearing off fast, and McKnight could tell just how many pieces. His hands. His hands. Not blind. Fucked up. Half-blind.
The medic would walk in any second now and start talking without making any noise again. McKnight didn't want to hear what he had to say. But he did. He wanted the medic to say, "Sorry, this was all a mistake. You're really not injured at all. You can go home now." Home.
But McKnight knew he'd come out of anaesthetic, so they'd had to sew something back together, and he could still taste the metal, so bad it wiped the memory of the taste of Grimes clear away.
How long had it been? A little over a week.
Grimes had rolled over on top of him. "Morning, sir," he'd said in that scratchy morning voice of his that made McKnight hard, and that he might never hear again. Wriggled against McKnight for second, then moved his hips away. "Zero five hundred, sir. No time for that now. When you get back…" And then he'd kissed McKnight, soft and sweet. He'd been practicing those soft sweet kisses on McKnight for years now, and they just kept getting better.
McKnight tried to move his mouth.
Would Grimes want to kiss him now that his face was all fucked up? And if he did, would McKnight ever be able to kiss him back?
"Practice," Grimes would say. Would whisper. Only McKnight wouldn't hear it.
McKnight closed his eye. There was nothing out there he wanted to see. He closed his eye and thought of Grimes.
Grimes getting out of the shower, dripping wet, hair plastered to his chest, his belly, parting low on where his cock lay, sated. Not even Grimes would get hard again that soon after a fuck like that. McKnight wrapped a towel around him and dried his hair with another towel. They must have left a dozen towels on the floor because Grimes had dried him too, and then they'd spent all that time just touching. Nothing else. What else was there? Touching.
And in the morning, Grimes kissing him. Good. So good, especially after the night before. The dull ache in his ass. He'd shit weird for a day or so, and then it was as if Grimes had never fucked him like that at all, except he could still feel it in his heart. Just kissing.
"You need a good breakfast, sir. Training a new group of Rangers always tires you out."
Why hadn't McKnight protested more? He should have pushed Grimes down on the bed and licked him all over. That would have been better than breakfast. More nourishing. He should have licked him where he was ticklish and made him laugh, and then the sound of Grimes laughing would be easier to imagine. He should have licked him where it made him moan. He should have made him so hard he begged, and then he should have taken Grimes inside his mouth, because he liked having Grimes inside him, and the fucking had been amazing, although he wasn't sure he'd ever really want to do that again, but if Grimes ever put on that uniform again… and that eyeliner… Lipstick. Motherfuck. McKnight would give it up in a heartbeat.
He might never get the chance to do that again. It might be too late to hear Grimes laugh and moan and beg.
McKnight kept his eye closed. Out there was the hospital. Inside his mind it wasn't too late.
Fucking military. It was his whole life, his whole career, his whole everything, except for Grimes. But if the military knew about Grimes, and it was a miracle they didn't already, but if they ever found out they'd dump McKnight's ass even faster than they would dump his ass if he did turn up deaf and half-blind and fucked up.
And what about Grimes? What would he want with a deaf, half-blind, fucked up commanding officer who wasn't even a commanding officer anymore?
McKnight took as big a breath as he could and tried to make his brain stop. Fuck. He only had a little longer before the pain would come back strong. They might drug him again. He might even ask them to. He had to think clearly. None of this self-pitying, wimpy shit.
Sit report:
He was wounded. He'd been wounded before. That wasn't a big deal.
He might be deaf, but he might not. No use stressing over it until he knew, and even then, it might not be such a big deal.
The medic had, at some point, taken the oxygen mask off him. So, he could breathe on his own. That was a very good sign. He would heal, for the most part.
Maybe he would never hear Grimes' voice again. He would survive. Grimes was very clever. He'd figure out some way of communicating. He'd make himself understood. Sign language. Finger spelling. He'd spell out the words on McKnight's skin with his tongue.
McKnight felt himself get a little hard. Bad idea. He needed that blood elsewhere, for healing. Still, it was good to know that part of him wasn't damaged. Not that he'd get to use it any time soon.
He could feel the pain creeping back in his knees and his hands. The morphine was wearing off already. Next his shoulder. His face. Fucking medic. Blah blah blah. Shut up I can't hear you. There was a dull sound, a quiet roar, something subdued. Was it his imagination?
The pain hit hard and McKnight's eye rolled up a bit.
Fuck.
The Mission Impossible theme sound should have been playing. The storage closet, the elaborate plans, the diversion, the secret signals. The sergeants were communicating in sign language, for Christ's sake.
Grimes might have to learn sign language, if McKnight was deaf. That was one of the possibilities Linda had tried to prepare him for. But he didn't believe any of it. Wouldn’t until he saw McKnight for himself. He followed Sanderson down the hallway, hugging the wall, avoiding the lights and the security cameras the way Sanderson had instructed him to.
These past nine hours had been hell. Not knowing. Linda phoned with regular reports but they weren't enough. They weren't the same as seeing, touching, feeling. He was so lucky he worked for D-Tech. If he'd been on his own, he'd be kept entirely in the dark. Instead, he had a team, a team of highly-trained, slightly over-the-top operatives. He could see Hoot at the end of the hall, keeping an eye on the monitors in the nursing station. They were running a covert op, but that didn't mean anyone's health would be put at risk. The slightest sign of trauma, if any patient buzzed for help, the medic would be summoned from across the hall.
What if he couldn't handle seeing McKnight all messed up? What if he wasn't good enough or strong enough to be able to handle it?
And what was McKnight thinking? He must be pissed off to be hurt so bad, and wondering why Grimes wasn't there yet. Grimes had to get moving. He was already late. He hoped he wasn't too late. He hoped McKnight would wake up for him.
Fuck! Why had he worn that stupid uniform and the eyeliner and the lipstick? He didn't want McKnight to be lying in bed remembering that as the last time they made love. Grimes wished he'd been the one getting fucked. That would give McKnight a better memory to hold onto. Something that would make him feel strong and capable.
Being the one getting fucked made Grimes feel strong and capable, but not McKnight.
Linda waited by the elevator door, ready to direct the medic to the waiting room, where Hoot had planted the keys earlier. Grimes and Sanderson were at the door to the room where McKnight lay. Sanderson clamped a hand on his shoulder. Grimes nodded. No freaking out. He was there to assess the situation, to confirm McKnight's condition, to provide vital moral and emotional support to his commanding officer. That was his mission.
Sanderson untucked his uniform shirt and winked at Grimes.
"…and then you get to level eight, and the wall crumbles. No shit. Like dust, and that's when the real fun begins. Flying sea turtles. I'm not kidding, man. They come over the mountain in formation. The trick is to shoot the one at the head of the vee with a golden arrow. He falls and they all disperse. Otherwise, they dive-bomb you on the beach… Then this babe comes out of the hut…"
Some idiot white guy with blond girly hair was blabbing away with the night janitor about something called Elvendom's Gloom. Stupid video games. Dwayne looked at his watch. He really shouldn't be away from the floor for this long. "Ted, dude, just give me the keys to the A-Wing, fourth floor visitor's lounge!"
"One minute, Dwayne. I wanna hear about the babe…"
For fuck's sake, he'd had to page Ted three times to get him to the front desk, and even then he'd come into the hallway with the civilian clown and barely listened to Dwayne when he told him what he needed. He'd fumbled with the key ring for a second and then seemed to forget about it entirely as soon as Goldilocks mentioned the babe coming out of the hut.
"…enormous breasts and the smallest scrap of cloth…"
Goddamn computer nerds. They were all alike.
Price finally fell asleep. Chuck got up and stretched. He hadn't heard Dwayne return, so he'd better check on all the patients. He stepped into the hallway and was confronted by a guy about Dwayne's size, but older. This guy was a mess, uniform untucked and hair standing up on end, eyes wild. He teetered in front of Dwayne. "S'my boy in there?" he slurred. "Lemme see him."
Aw, shit. This was why he hated night shift. Army buddies always had to get liquored up and show up at all hours, always insisting it was their right to visit, they were in the army together, man, they'd been through some tough shit together. They were best friends. They'd saved each other's asses a million times and it wouldn't be right for one of them to wake up alone.
"He's all fucked up, man. I gotta see him."
Best thing was to let him into the room. After a couple of minutes this guy would realize Price wasn't going to wake up any time soon, and go on his way. Stumble back to barracks. Get in shit with his sergeant. No, wait, this guy was a sergeant. Probably felt responsible for sending Price out on whatever assignment he'd been on when his jeep blew up.
"Okay, man, I'll give you five minutes."
Yes, yes, Chuck was a fucking angel. He knew, he knew. He just hoped nothing bad would happen on the ward. He had to stay with this guy. He was too drunk to be left alone in there with a seriously injured man. He'd trip over the IV hose or accidentally pull the plug on the respirator.
Goddamn drunks.
He'd been told about the machines and the wires and the tubes and the swelling, but nothing could have prepared Grimes for the shape McKnight was in, the misshapen flesh and the black stitches like barbed wire. Jesus, his face was distorted by the inflammation and the bruises were coming up fast. Grimes got to the side of the bed. His first instinct was to reach for a hand, but they were both swaddled in white bandages. He didn't know where he could touch McKnight without hurting him, but he didn't want to not touch him either.
"Sir," he said unsteadily.
McKnight lay still, stiller than Grimes had ever seen him. So still Grimes looked up at the monitor on the wall. McKnight's heartbeat was steady. He was strong. This was nothing.
But it wasn't nothing. It was serious. There was serious damage; that was clear. McKnight might be in the hospital a long time, and it would take even longer for everything to heal.
The stitching was incredible. There would hardly be any scarring at all, except for the burned part at the edge. It was hard to imagine the swelling around his eye going down, but Grimes knew it would. He'd seen injuries like that before. The human body is an incredibly efficient machine when it comes to self-repair, so fragile but so resilient at the same time.
There had been a lot of work done on McKnight's shoulder. Grimes would have to make sure he took care of it. There would be physiotherapy and stretching. Exercises. Grimes would have to think of new ways for them to do the things they liked to do. This was worse than the broken wrist. This was worse than that, but he could handle it. They would handle it. They had to.
And what if McKnight was deaf? What if he could never again hear Grimes?
He didn't need to hear Grimes. Grimes would think of other ways to tell him.
But he couldn't think of any now.
"Sir," he said. His voice hitched.
Come on, Grimes, pull yourself together. He heard it in Sanderson's voice, but it was coming from his own head. Suck it up and be a soldier.
"Danny," he said louder, clearer. "Danny."
McKnight was dreaming. Grimes was whispering in his ear. The same dull roar he'd heard before obscured the words.
He opened his eye.
He was dreaming. Grimes was standing beside the bed, right there in the hospital room. He looked worried. His mouth was moving. There was a sound coming out of it. It was faint, but it was there. McKnight stared up at Grimes' mouth, trying to match movement to words. He couldn't tell which was which, if he was seeing or hearing the words, or maybe imagining them, but he recognized some them. The words he recognized were "awake" and 'time' and… 'sir'.
"Again," he tried to say. He couldn't tell how much of it got out.
Grimes leaned down. "Limited time, sir. We're on a tight schedule." His speech was slow, a bit exaggerated. It was easy to read his lips.
How the hell had Grimes got into the hospital?
"Can you hear me at all, sir?"
McKnight didn't exactly hear that, but he understood it. How had he understood that?
Suddenly, McKnight wasn't worried anymore.
Maybe he'd understood what Grimes was saying just by reading his lips.
That was okay. They were the loveliest lips he could imagine reading. He could read them whenever he needed to, whenever Grimes spoke. That would give McKnight an excellent excuse to stare at them all the time. All day, all night. Every day and every night. When they were sitting at the table or on the couch, when Grimes was making dinner or after dinner, if Grimes decided to kneel on the floor by the table or by McKnight's chair… even when Grimes was sleeping – McKnight could look at his lips all the time, just in case he said something. Had to be prepared. He wouldn't want to miss a word.
That Grimes was here, in the hospital, a fucking miracle, so McKnight knew everything was going to be all right.
McKnight saw a movement in what little peripheral vision he had. Someone made a hand signal from out in the hallway. Grimes nodded, spoke, was waved at.
That had to be Hoot Gibson or Jeff Sanderson. Who else would be able to sneak Grimes into a military hospital in the middle of the night?
That was why Linda had looked so sure of herself earlier. He could remember now, Linda talking on the phone, and then smiling. She must have been on the phone with D-Tech, arranging this little mission. Everything was going to be all right, she must have been telling him.
And it was. It was all right.
And then Grimes vanished. Like a ghost.
Dwayne waited impatiently for the elevator to reach the fourth floor. Video games. Kids' stuff. He hated them. Warcraft. What a waste of time. The elevator door opened and the tall silver-haired lady was walking toward him.
"He's sleeping. I can't do him any good. I'm just so frazzled. Will you please help me find my keys?" She took him by the arm and tugged, trying to lead him to the visitor's lounge.
Dwayne checked his watch. "Look, ma'am, I have a schedule to keep, and your brother needs his dressing changed. You're going to have to wait while I do that."
"But my keys!"
"Ma'am, I understand it's been a long day, but you want me to take care of your brother, don't you? I'm going to check for any seepage from the incisions, clean up any problems. It'll only take a few minutes. I promise." He gently guided her to a chair beside the nursing station, then went into the patient's room.
Dwayne switched on the overhead light. The patient was lying just as he'd been before. There was no reason to expect anything different. Except there was a bulge under the sheets. No reason not to expect that either. Patients often got unexpected erections. That was something Dwayne had learned to ignore. Although in this case it was a little more difficult to ignore than most.
"Big boy," Dwayne murmured as he prepared the dressing for Colonel McKnight's shoulder.
"Ouch," he heard the sister yelp from outside. And then she was right behind Dwayne, breathing down his neck. "I'll watch what you do. I need to know how to do it when he comes home, right? Don't worry, I'm tough. I can handle seeing the wounds. I've taken care of him before. You see those wounds on his neck? Those were from Somalia."
Dwayne had seen the scars on the neck earlier. They were faded, but he'd seen them. This guy had been through this sort of thing before.
"Please, ma'am, move to the other side of the bed. I need room to work."
She moved over, between the bad and the curtain.
Even though the patient probably couldn't hear him, he warned him of everything he was going to do before he did it. That was something Dwayne never neglected. People who have been wounded in battle, who were trained for battle, did not like to be snuck up on. "I have to position you so I can reach the whole bandaged area," he said. He very gently rolled McKnight onto his side and stripped off the gauze. This first dressing change after the surgery could hold some fairly unpleasant surprises. In this case, the surprise was pleasant. The wound was clean, not too red. No pus at all. "You're doing great," Dwayne said, for the benefit of the sister as well as the patient.
"Oh, goodness, that's a lot of stitches," the sister said.
"These two long, even rows are from the surgery. The scattered ones are where the skin was hit by the shrapnel." It was healing remarkably well. This guy must live a healthy lifestyle, to heal so quickly. The skin was scattered with smaller, unstitched wounds, but they were clean as well. That was a relief.
Colonel McKnight made a sound like the air going out of a tire. "Ffffff."
"What's he saying?" Dwayne asked. He bent down to get a closer look at the back part of the incision as he painted the antibiotic solution on it.
"Feeeee," the Colonel said.
Dwayne heard shuffling from the other side of the bed. "Is there a problem over there?" he asked, and placed a fresh dressing over the shoulder and back.
"Nothing," the sister said brightly. "Just an old pet name for me. Fee. From Fifi. It's a long story. I'm sure you don't have the time for it."
Dwayne did not have time to hear it. He asked the sister to get him some water from the sink by the door. She returned momentarily with a jug of water. Dwayne eased the Colonel back down on the bed. That was all he'd do now. The instructions were to wait to do the hands until morning. He poured a cup of water for the patient.
"I know this is hard," he said loudly. "Please, just wet your lips with this."
McKnight managed a sip from the cup Dwayne held to his lips. Must have hurt. Dwayne had his back to McKnight's sister, but he could have sworn he heard her gasp.
"Can we get the keys now?" she asked. "I really need to get home and get some rest. I'm exhausted."
So was Dwayne, and the night had hardly begun.
Damn it! Grimes was behind the curtain but his feet were showing. Linda hadn't even noticed, but Danny had.
Well, at least there was nothing wrong with his vision. Not in the eye that was open.
Linda shuffled her foot over and nudged Grimes' running shoe. He tucked his feet behind the curtain.
But he hadn't stayed quiet when the nurse gave Danny a drink of water. Silly John. Sweet John. He probably wanted to be the only one to give Danny a drink, or help him in any way. Well, he was just going to have to let the nurses help him, for the time being.
It was good to hear that the incision was healing well. She knew Danny always healed well, but confirmation made her breathe easier.
Having the nurse in the same room as Mr. Grimes was not making her breathe easier. She tried to be patient while the nurse changed the bandages. He was taking great care with it. That was reassuring too, but the longer he was in the room, the greater the danger of John being discovered. She could not remember clearly, there had been such a rush of instructions, but she was sure one of the nice sergeants had given John instructions on what to do in case of discovery. She hoped John would remember them.
She did not mind the danger. It was nice to get a chance to exercise her acting skills, and it had been fascinating to see the nice sergeants outline the plan. Like something out of a spy movie. She hadn't been expecting the nurse to want to change the dressing so urgently, but she'd managed to change her plan to suit his actions. In a way, if things weren't so dire for Danny, she would be enjoying this.
She rubbed the part of her behind that was stinging a bit.
Hoot crouched under the counter of the nursing station. Damn that medic and his schedules. Things had been going perfectly up until the changing of the dressing. Mizz McKnight was supposed to drag him directly to the visitors' lounge, to buy Grimes the maximum amount of time in the room with McKnight.
Situations always change, and you've got to adapt your plan to conform. Mizz McKnight knew that, but she wasn't used to thinking quite as flexibly as this situation required. She just sat on the chair where the medic had put her, only a couple of feet away from the counter where Hoot had concealed himself. Hoot needed her in the room, ready to distract the medic if Grimes hadn't understood his signal, or if he'd not been able to find a good hiding place.
Hoot stared down at his hand.
He could not believe he'd just done that.
Fuck. He'd just pinched McKnight's sister on the ass! It had been the only part of her not in the view of the room, and it had been imperative to get her moving again. And it had got her moving.
But he'd just pinched McKnight's sister's ass.
McKnight would kill him if he found out. Hospital bed or no hospital bed, the man was scary, and he already didn't like the way Hoot looked at his boyfriend.
And she was his older sister, who'd raised him, so it was like he'd just pinched McKnight's mom's ass.
Fuck, his hand was shaking.
Hoot wished the nurse would get the hell out of there. Why the fuck had Grimes stayed in there so long? Wasn't this supposed to be a quick recon mission? Jesus, what had Grimes been doing, giving the Colonel a blow job?
Mmm, blow job. He wished Sanderson could be tucked under the counter with him. After that morning, he was feeling a little neglected.
That always happened when he wore a suit. Sanderson had a serious thing for a guy in a suit kneeling at his feet.
Maybe he and Sanderson weren't so different from McKnight and Grimes after all. Except he and Sanderson switched things up all the time. With McKnight and Grimes, Hoot was pretty damn sure of who was on top, all the time. But it wasn't just a master and servant thing with them. Hoot had never seen any two people more devoted to each other. It had been sweet, in a way, how worried Grimes was, and the almost cute look of determination he'd got on his face as soon as the initial shock wore off.
Hoot stiffened. There was movement in the stairway. He crouched low, but free of any impediments should he have to strike. The stairwell door opened a crack. Dark honey blond curls emerged.
Schmid. Hoot had almost forgotten about him.
Schmid moved up the hall, shadow to shadow. Slow and smooth, slow is fast. You can take the soldier out of his uniform, grow out his Ranger cut, have him wander for two years and immerse himself in computer culture and other nerdy crap, but you can never take the training out of him.
Schmid slid noiselessly beside Hoot and checked the array of monitors on the panel above the counter.
You can't take the medic out of him either…
Hoot pulled Schmid down under the counter. "I could have killed you," he said under his breath.
"I wanted to see how it was going."
"It's fine…" He melted into they shadows and pulled Schmid with him. They both held their breath as Mizz McKnight and the nurse came out of the room and headed down the hall toward the visitor's lounge.
"…I can't tell you how embarrassing it is to lose my keys like this. If you could help me find them, I'd greatly appreciate it. They're on a sliver key chain shaped like a Celtic knot. I got it at the Scottish National Gallery last month. Have you ever been to Scotland? It was lovely there. What would have happened if Danny had been wounded when I was overseas? Oh, my goodness, that would have been horrible, don't you think?…"
Hoot held Schmid under the counter. He had one arm around him and a nose full of curls. Damn. Schmid used some kind of shampoo that smelled like coconut.
Hoot loved coconut.
He twitched his nose, and then he turned his head so he could feel the curls on his cheek.
Schmid moved his head, and the silk against Hoot's cheek was fucking maddening. Schmid relaxed and moved away from him.
Damn.
But the plan was back on track. Hoot liked that.
"She's pretty good at that," Schmid whispered. "Does she work for you often?"
"She's McKnight's sister!" Hoot said.
Still, even though he'd had to pinch her to get her moving again, Mizz McKnight was pretty good at the improv. They could use her in the business. No one would ever expect a respectable lady of her age of being an industrial spy… He could not believe he'd pinched her ass like that. He could have sworn, at the time, it as his only option, but now he could think of a dozen other ways he could have got her attention.
He sincerely hoped she would never mention it to McKnight.
Or Grimes. He could picture the reproachful look Grimes would give him if he ever found out.
Hmm. Maybe Hoot should tell Grimes. He kind of liked the reproachful look. Or maybe it wasn't the look Hoot liked, but the things he'd usually been doing to earn the reproachful look.
Time to duck again. The other medic was on the move. Things looked a little tense. So now it was time to spring into action.
And, God damn it, Sanderson looked good in uniform!
Sanderson really could not keep up this charade any longer. Playing the unsteady drunk was one thing, and the bedside army buddy routine was easy enough to imagine, but what if the poor kid woke up and the medic told him a guy had been in to see him? Price would be wondering who it was, expecting another visit. Things could be lonely enough in the hospital without reason for false hope.
He teetered at the side of the bed. "Oh, my god, he's juss a kid and now look at 'im… all bandaged up like a mummy or somethin'. He looks so tiny in that bed. He don't look himself at all. Hey, wait a minute... tha's not Eddy!"
The medic, who wore a nametag that said 'Chuck', sighed. "I know he's beat up pretty bad, sergeant, but trust me, that's him. Private Edward Price."
Sanderson waved his hands in the air. "No, no, no, no… Edwin. I'm lookin' fer Edwin. I was at the... you know, the bar, an' this corporal came in and tole me Eddy's all messed up in the hopi… hospa…hospital." Sanderson reeled and fell against Chuck. Not hard, but enough to keep his attention. "I came right away. I did. I said, dammit, if my pal Edwin Starr is in the hospitable, I'm gonna see him right now!" Sanderson stamped his foot in time with the 'now' and caught the edge of Chuck's shoe with his heel.
Right about then, Chuck would be thinking of ways to escort the sloppy drunk as far away from his ward as possible… it was too easy, really. Sanderson allowed himself to be dragged out of the room, putting up exactly the amount of resistance you would expect from a disappointed drunken army buddy.
Grimes reappeared from behind the curtain.
McKnight had not been dreaming. Grimes really had been standing beside his bed, and speaking to him.
"Sir," Grimes said. "That was close."
This lip-reading stuff was too easy. McKnight was sure he was actually hearing at least some of it.
"I don't know if you can hear me, but it doesn’t matter. We'll work it out together."
But it would be good to know for sure.
McKnight closed his eye. "More," he said.
The voice was far away. But it belonged to Grimes, and he could hear it, faint and far away, but he could hear it, and it said, "Don't worry, sir. I won't let you down."
Let him down? Nothing could be farther from the truth.
McKnight opened his eye so he could see Grimes again.
"You'll be home soon, and I'm going to take good care of you, Danny."
He always did.
Grimes had a most serious look on his face, but then his eyes flickered down and the smallest smile appeared. "Sir…"
Oh, yeah. He was hard. That was what came from watching Grimes' lips so intently.
"So, that part works just fine…" Grimes reached down and patted McKnight's cock lightly. But McKnight felt it clearly through the blanket. "No time for that now, sir. When you get home…" He leaned down and there was a faint press of lips against McKnight's lips.
It didn't hurt at all.
Chuck threw himself into the chair with a groan. "Oh, man, that sloppy drunk. First he demands to see Price, then it's not Price he's looking for, the this other drunk comes outta nowhere, huge fucking guy, and he's all, 'Dude, it's not him! Eddie's down and the bar and everyone's laughing their asses off about you coming all the way here. Get your ass back to the bar. I'll buy you a scotch.' And then they go stumbling off down the hall and knocked over some bottles from the cart in the hallway. Fucking weird, man."
"I know. Weird night. Took forever to find that lady's keys. They were under the cushions of the couch, can you believe it? No harm done, though. Everyone's tucked in and secure."
"Yeah, but they made a mess with the cart. Two disinfectants got mixed together all over the floor. Smelled awful."
Dwayne looked up from his charts. "It shouldn't be dangerous but make sure you wear a mask and nitrate gloves when you clean it up, just in case. There should be a fresh pair in the chemical spill closet down the hall."
"Took care of it already. But that closet was a mess. It looked like someone held a party in there or something. I tidied it up a bit. Look, can we leave this off the reports? I don't want anyone to get in trouble…"
"No problem. On a weird night like this one, it's best to keep everything as unofficial as possible."
#
Dwayne Carter checked the chart again to make sure he'd not made a mistake. That morphine should have completely worn off by now. But there was Colonel McKnight, sleeping peacefully.
A faint smile curled up the uninjured side of the patient's mouth.
"Pleasant dreams, Colonel," the nurse muttered as he replaced the chart at the end of the bed.
McKnight was dreaming. He couldn't tell if he could hear or not in the dream. It was a silent dream, but the visuals more than made up for the lack of sound.
And then Grimes moaned...
To be continued...
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