Page 156 of Oddly Fine

“It seems Mr. Thérault was dropped off at my condo near the Old Port a few minutes ago. He’s alive but unconscious.”

Hayes didn’t waste time with a reply. He checked his pocket to make sure he had the keys to their rental car and headed for the door. The rapid tapping of Matthew’s dress shoes on the tile floor as he rushed to catch up was just so much static in his ears.

He drove like a maniac, and it was a miracle that he didn’t get pulled over. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Not the unmanly yelps of fear periodically erupting from Matthew as he ran a dozen red lights, nor the acrid smell of burnt rubber when he slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car with the engine still running and the driver’s door standing wide open. He didn’t fucking care. He ran out of the parking garage, not pausing until he’d reached the front door. There was blood on the entrance mat. The door swung open just as he reached for the latch, which was good, because otherwise he’d have broken it down in his haste to get to Beckett. Amanda greeted him with a gentle smile. She didn’t bother with hellos. She simply stepped aside and pointed to the couch.

“He’s breathing,” she assured him.

When his eyes finally landed on his partner, he took what felt like his first real breath since their comms had gone silent five hours before.

Breathing. That was good. But his breathing was laboured. Bruised and bloody, he had a slight hitch in every breath he took. Hayes could tell that much before he even reached his side. The routine rise and fall of his chest was reassuringly normal, despite the obvious injuries.

Finally close enough to reach out and touch Beckett, Hayes suddenly felt faint as his adrenaline crash hit, and his legs gave out. He slid to the floor and scooted on his knees to Beckett’s side, pulling himself up, needing to touch him. His hands were shaking badly, and they’d been that way ever since he’d learned of Beckett’s disappearance. It had taken every ounce of his control not to react at first. He’d fought a quickly losing battle with himself to keep calm and carry on. Only his hands had given him away. Shaking like leaves in a windstorm. Unsteady, uncertain. Fuck—

“Breathe,” Beckett urged him, one of his eyes partially open. “You look like you’re about to pass out, and this fancy-assed couch is way too small to share,” Beckett said, no doubt to reassure Hayes that he was well and truly okay, and his crude sense of humour was still intact. His voice was gravelly, his words barely more than scratchy whispers.

“You just don’t want people to know you’re the little spoon,” Hayes said, as he gently cupped his hands around Beckett’s face. The bottom of his jaw was bruised. So was his cheekbone. His nose was a little swollen but didn’t look broken. One of his eyebrows had a cut and his bottom lip was puffy and bloody.

“You’re covered in blood,” Hayes said. Now that he was satisfied the man was breathing and his face was still relatively intact, he needed to find the source of the sticky wet stuff covering him.

“All mine,” Beckett said with mock pride. He coughed and winced.

Fuck—he had some bruised ribs, then, and Hayes prayed hard they were just bruised.

Beckett was covered with a blanket, but as Hayes pulled it back, he discovered that Beckett’s chest was bare beneath it. There was a wide white bandage taped to his left pectoral, but the gauze was soaked with blood. Soaked and falling off.

“Jesus,” Hayes said, as he took in the bloody compress.

“Superficial,” Beckett said, with a wince. Hayes wasn’t so sure about that, but he ran his hands along Beckett’s sides, pressing lightly, searching for additional injuries.

“Bullet?”

“Knife,” Beckett replied.

Good. Knife wounds were usually easier to deal with than bullet wounds were. The farther down his body he went, the worse it looked. Beckett’s sides were riddled with bruises. Pink and purple marks covered his ribs, abdomen, and back. As he ran a hand over the third rib, Beckett cursed a blue streak.

“It’s likely broken,” Hayes said, fighting the urge to howl angrily.

“Cracked,” Beckett argued, shaking his head.

“You an MD now?” Hayes fired back.

“Had enough broken ones to tell the difference,” he retorted, softly, like he knew Hayes was barely hanging onto his own sanity.

“We need to get you checked out,” Hayes insisted, unable to keep his hands from running over Beckett’s body repeatedly.

“No—” he said, shaking his head. He tried to sit up. Slowly. Hayes’ hands shot out to stop him, but Beckett grabbed them, using them to pull himself up instead. He didn’t let go of them even while he was busy wedging himself into the corner of the couch. Hayes’ hands stopped shaking. They never shook when Beckett held them.

“I’m perfectly—,” he began.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Hayes growled in warning.

Beckett chuckled but held up his hands in defeat.

“I’m almost fine,” he said, instead. Hayes grumbled but let it slide.

Beckett looked away from Hayes towards Matthew. Begrudgingly, Hayes moved aside for Matthew to approach Beckett. If it were up to him, Hayes would whisk his boyfriend away and get as far fucking away from this whole shit show as possible but—

“They found the mole,” Beckett said, with a sigh.