#hand gagging

But there was more than just trauma supplies there. There were bottles of water, calorie packs, a few different packets of pills. Enough shit to last for at least the next day. Marcus wet his lips. “And… the rest of it?”

Jake shrugged. “Stole it.”

Marcus stared at the pile, thoughts pinging through his brain like sluggish bullets. The only one he could form and speak was: “You… didn’t have to come back.”

“I know that,” Jake said, and jabbed the injector into Marcus’s leg.

Marcus hissed as the meds sank deep into the muscle. When the injector was empty, Jake dropped it to the floor and reached for the bandages and disinfectant again. Once he was holding them, though, he just… sat there.

Marcus stared at him. “You gonna use that… s-some time today?” he rasped.

“I’m waiting until the meds kick in,” Jake said, bending low to peer at Marcus’s wound.

“Smart.” Marcus tilted his head back against the floor, did his best not to shiver. “If I scream, could lead someone right to us.”

“I’m… I’m waiting, so I don’t… hurt you, Marcus.”

When Marcus lifted his head to look at Jake, the kid’s brow was furrowed. Marcus stared at him for a long, silent moment.

A curl of warmth wrapped itself around his insides, and the pain crushing his leg released a few notches.

“Fuuuck,” he sighed. “They give the tac teams the good shit.”

A muscle stood out in Jake’s jaw as he leaned forward and began to dab at Marcus’s wound.

Even with the analgesics – and it had to be fentanyl or dilaudid, none of that weak morphine shit – agony lanced through Marcus’s torn flesh. He let out a strangled cry, forced his own hand against his mouth. Sweat – more sweat, he was already clammy as hell – poured down his temples and soaked his shirt. He shivered with it, so hard his entire body began to shake. Jake bent low over his leg, poured disinfectant directly into the wound.

Marcus screamed against his own hand.

“S-sorry,” he ground out, vision gray at the edges. “Sorry, kid, sorry, keep going. It’s g-getting… in there, fuck, you’re doing good…”

“I’m sorry, Marcus,” the kid whispered. He bent his head to swipe his upper arm along his eyes. “I’m almost done, okay? They have a NanoStat kit, and that should—”

“That’s good,” Marcus gasped. “That’s really good, actually.”

So that’s the kind of shit you get when you’re a paid soldier. No bleeding out in the field getting your blood held in by some shitty mass-produced tourniquet, no sir, you get fucking nanobots. Hell yeah, brother, I could be a soldier if this is the shit they get.

Jake picked up the applicator, handled it awkwardly. It looked almost like a small caulk gun – but with millions of microscopic robots inside, waiting to be activated by human blood. He fumbled at the orange safety tab, pulled it free. Marcus half-expected it to start glowing.

“Okay,” Marcus panted. “Now you just… I don’t know, stick it in the wound and pull the trigger, I think.”

Jake’s lips trembled. “You think so?”

“One way to find out, kid. Go for it.”

Carefully, far too slowly, Jake pressed the tip of the applicator into the hole blown through Marcus’s calf. Marcus hissed out a breath and threw out a hand, searching for something to hold onto. His hand landed on Jake’s ankle, over his bloodstained boot. He squeezed hard.

“Okay,” Jake said softly. “Here we go.” He squeezed the nanobots into the wound. They went in looking like foam.

Agony ripped through Marcus.

Every nerve ending in his leg lit up at once. He arched off the floor, writhing like Aisha was delivering a shock through his chip. Sightless eyes rolled in his head, and his throat went raw as he screamed. His hand lost purchase on Jake’s ankle. He flopped on the floor, mouth agape, gasping for breath that brought no relief.

A hand pressed down over his mouth. He sobbed against it.

“Marcus, Marcus.” A face floated above his, wide eyes over a mouth tense with worry. The hand stayed pressed over his lips, pushing down so hard his jaw ached, but a second hand found his and squeezed. He held on tight. If he let go, he’d be lost in the pain burrowing into his leg, hollowing him out from the inside.

If he let go, he’d die. He crushed the hand in his grip.

“Shh, I’m sorry.”

Marcus tried to choke back his screams. He sobbed against Jake’s hand, each breath heaving through him.

Kill me, Marcus would have said, if Jake wasn’t gagging him with his hand. You need to kill me. Eventually I’ll scream loud enough for someone to hear, and someone will come to investigate. Please kill me.

I can’t take this. You need to kill me.

He couldn’t beg. Jake wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t release his mouth. Marcus just sobbed under Jake’s hand, clutching him as his leg felt like it was being seared off his body. Tears soaked into the filthy carpet beneath him.

“I’m sorry, Marcus, I’m sorry. I don’t know how long this lasts. Just hang on, please. I can get you more analgesics if you want.”

Marcus nodded as best he could. Yes. More pain meds. Please. When Jake’s hand left his mouth, he pressed his own hand over it.

Jake had to pry Marcus’s fingers off his other hand, one at a time. Marcus’s stomach heaved with his dizziness.

“Oh… oh, shit.”

Marcus couldn’t speak, could only sob. He lay on the floor and waited for whatever blow was going to fall.

“I was supposed to use a nerve block before I… Hang on, Marcus… hang on. This will help. One more needle. This goes… right above the… I think…”

Marcus couldn’t see what Jake was doing; he could only see the blurry ceiling. He felt pressure around his knee, a flare of heat. He screamed weakly. His stomach heaved once more, and he rolled to his side so he wouldn’t choke.

Tried to roll. His leg wouldn’t cooperate.

He did his best to kick, but it was as if his leg had turned to rubber from the knee down. As quickly as the pain had struck, it was sucked out of his body. He lay trembling against the floor, soaked with tears and sweat, throat sore from screaming – and from choking back his screams. He slumped, exhausted.

“M-Marcus,” Jake whispered.

Marcus groaned softly.

“I… I think I can take the tourniquet off now. It’s the NanoStat. It’s… doing something, I think.”

Marcus couldn’t sit up enough to look. He just nodded, shaky and weak. He felt it, as the tourniquet loosened. The sound of relief he made was barely human.

“I’m sorry.” Marcus felt hands on him, holding him steady, wiping away sweat – cradling his face. It was all done with a gentleness that raised goosebumps across his body. It was as if his skin was crawling, but… he didn’t detest it. He leaned into the touch. Jake froze. Marcus froze, too.

It was the drugs. It had to be the drugs, making him okay with being touched like this. No one had ever done it before, and if Marcus was sober, he would shove Jake away, call him sloppy, tell him to fuck off. Marcus didn’t need this. Now that he had the pain meds swimming through his blood and the nerve block deadening everything below his knee, he was fine.

He didn’t realize he had reached out to clutch Jake’s sleeve, right over the kid’s bandages, until his fingers were already tightening in the fabric.

Fuck.

He couldn’t need this.

Couldn’t be needed.

“I-I’ll do anything. Please. Please, don’t.”

He couldn’t make himself let go.

Jake moved so, so slowly. He reached out, took Marcus’s free hand. Jake’s hand felt warm. A violent shiver rocked through Marcus’s body, and suddenly, he was freezing. He whined softly – an animal sound that shocked him to his core. His teeth chattered. Every muscle ached.

“Wh-what the… fuck?” he groaned.

“I think you’re in shock,” Jake whispered. “Here.” He grabbed the jacket that had fallen off Marcus, spread it over him again. “I should have grabbed, like… a blanket or something. I could still probably…” He moved, as if to stand.

“No.” Marcus grabbed at him. Fuck, what was wrong with him? “No. Stay. I… Just to make sure the NanoStat doesn’t… do something weird. With me.”

Jake sat back down, held Marcus’s hand tightly again. “Yeah,” he said. “And you should drink something, soon. Replenish the blood you lost.”

“Soon,” Marcus said. “But just… just give me a minute.” He shivered again. His fingers felt so cold. When he forced his eyes to focus, he could see Jake’s worried expression as he leaned over him – and Marcus’s knife, now tucked into the sheath at his belt. “Just a… a minute, Jake.”

“Okay,” Jake said softly. He wet his lips, seemed to be about to say something before he thought better of it. Marcus heaved another full-body shiver. Jake squeezed Marcus’s hand. “I’ve got you, Marcus,” he whispered – so quietly it could have been a breath.

Inexplicable tears leaked from Marcus’s eyes. He nodded stiffly. “I know,” he whispered. Another shiver rocked him. “I… I know.”

Continued here

He skids around a corner, nearly losing his balance, then turns down a hallway. He risks a glance over his shoulder and sees his pursuer come around the same corner, then pause for a second and look both ways. Shawn ducks out of sight as the man’s eyes come his way, but he hears more gunshots and approaching footsteps and realizes he hadn’t gotten out of the field of view quickly enough. 

He starts running again, and suddenly realizes that his left arm is wet. Which is weird. He spares a glance at it as his feet fly over the tile, and notices with alarm that it’s red. He thinks it has to be blood, but he doesn’t know from where. He reaches out a hand to touch it and - 

Yeah. That had been a mistake. He barely stops himself from screaming as his hand makes contact with what he is rapidly realizing is a bullet wound in his upper arm. 

He can’t deal with this right now - he’s running for his life and he’s been shot and he might get shot again and maybe even die, and he can’t die right now, but his arm really hurts and it’s making it kind of difficult to think about what he should do. 

Shawn turns another corner and there! - ahead of him, on the right, is a door with a sign on it. He doesn’t pause to read it, just wrenches it open with his good arm and shuts the door behind him, just as he hears the footsteps of the gunman turn the corner after him. 

Shawn stumbles around in the small, dark space, which he can infer is some kind of storage closet. He feels for a lock on the door handle and, disappointingly, finds none. He moves to feel for some kind of implement to defend himself with, instead - a broom, maybe - but his leg hits something on the floor and sends him stumbling forward and his left arm slams into something hard and metallic and he clamps his right hand firmly over his mouth to stop himself from screaming. His blood pounds in his ears from a combination of pain and fear that he’s about to be discovered, and his entire left arm from the elbow to the shoulder feels like it’s on fire or something. He breathes heavily and unevenly into his hand and forces himself to not make any other noise. 

Above the pounding in his ears, Shawn listens. His pursuer’s footsteps approach the closet, and he clamps his hand still harder over his mouth, trying desperately not to breathe at all. The footsteps pass his hiding spot and he feels suddenly, horribly dizzy with a lack of air and he wants to breathe and he wants to scream or maybe cry and he wants out of here and he really wants to not die and to not have a bullet wound in him. God, it hurts. 

The footsteps fade away. Shawn hears a door open and slam and then there’s a muffled curse, as of one who has lost their prey. He moves his hand away from his mouth at long last and breathes, ragged and pained and barely controlled. He’d scream, or maybe at least whimper, but he still can’t be completely sure that the guy is really, truly gone. Maybe he’s trying to trick Shawn, maybe he’s waiting for him to reveal his location and then he’s going to come back and shoot him in the head this time, and that’ll be it. So he can’t do anything more than breathe. He can’t leave this closet, not yet. 

He just has to let someone else know what’s happened. Then they can make sure that the guy really is gone, and then Shawn will be okay. Yeah. That sounds like a good plan.

He texts Lassie with his usable hand. The head detective’s response is quick and quite possibly a little angry.

You got shot?

not on purpose

We’ll be there in ten minutes. Keep pressure on the wound. And don’t try anything stupid. 

Oh. He hadn’t thought of putting pressure on his arm. His dad would be so disappointed...but there’s no time like the present, so Shawn sets down his phone and presses his right hand into his left arm. 

And suddenly really wishes that he had another hand, to muffle the sounds of agony that are absolutely begging to come out of his mouth. Pressing into the wound hurts about a million times more than the wound itself, and he really wants to let go, but he knows he’s supposed to do this and it’s only for a few minutes, but it hurts. He can’t quite stop himself from whimpering in pain, but the door doesn’t come smashing open, so he figures he’s not being too loud. He feels a hot tear run down his cheek and hot blood seeping into his fingertips and he hopes Lassie really had meant ten minutes. 

--

Almost exactly ten minutes later, Shawn becomes aware of voices in the hallway. He can’t quite place them, and for a second, he panics, and then he hears Lassie’s voice, shouting at someone to do something, and if Lassiter’s here then that means he’s safe. 

“I’m in here!” he shouts, and lets go of his arm to grab at the door handle and let himself out. His bloody fingers refuse to get a grip on the metal, though, and they slide off, but it doesn’t matter - a second later, the door’s opening and he has to step out of the way and then he’s face to face with Lassie and if he didn’t know better he’d say he almost looks worried, and then he remembers his arm but finds he doesn’t really have the energy to scream like he’d wanted to do so badly before. 

“It hurts,” he says, instead, and his voice is barely above a whisper. “Am I dying?” He doesn’t think so, but you can never be too sure.

“You’re fine,” Lassie is saying, but that’s easy for him to say, he’s not the one with a bullet in him. “Or, you’re not dying, anyway.”

That’s all I needed to hear, Shawn thinks, and then another wave of dizziness hits him and everything starts to spin, and then he’s falling and someone’s grabbing him and they hit his hurt arm and he does scream, now, finally, loud and raw and with the force of all the screams he’d forced down before behind it, and then everything fades into nothingness.

--

He wakes up slowly, uncomfortably, achingly. None of the good stuff, he thinks glumly. Thanks, Dad. He turns to look at his left arm, and is pleased to see that it’s no longer bloody. It’s wrapped in bandages and a sling and he wonders how long that’s going to be on, and how long until he can get out of here, because any amount of time spent in the hospital when he could be out there doing stuff is time wasted.

“You’re here for at least another day,” comes a voice from his right side, as though its owner has read his thoughts, and Shawn jolts in surprise, turning around. 

“Lassie! You scared me.”

Lassiter shrugs. “Sorry,” he says, and there’s hardly any sarcasm at all behind the words. 

Shawn doesn’t know what to focus on first - the fact that he’s apparently stuck here for at least 24 more hours, the fact that Lassie has just spoken to him almost completely nicely, or the fact that Lassie’s even here at all. 

He’s trying to decide what to say when Lassiter speaks again. “O’Hara’s on her way. She said there was some traffic, but that she should be here within the hour. I believe Guster said something about the cafeteria a few minutes ago, and Henry said he'd stop by after dinner. The Chief sends her regards and hopes you’ll be pleased to know that one of our officers apprehended your shooter.”

Now Shawn really doesn’t know what to say. What does Lassie have to go being all nice and…message-delivery-y for? He’s silent for a moment, trying to work out what exactly to say, but in the end figures simple is best. 

“Thanks.”

Lassie doesn’t say anything, but there’s something that you might call the barest hint of a smile on his face, and it’s more than reply enough.