Page 158 of Oddly Fine

Chase shook his head in confusion, not really all that awake yet.

“Just to make sure I got this right—you were stabbed, twice, in the chest. In the middle of the pectoral muscle, yes?”

Beckett gave a curt nod and then winced, as his ribs were too bruised for the abrupt movement.

“Clearly, whoever patched you up did a shit job,” Chase mumbled. “Muscle isn’t vital—and that’s not enough blood loss to kill you, but it shouldn’t be bleeding this much. How long has it been since you got stabbed?”

And weren’t those just insane questions to be asking.

“I really don’t know what time it was—I was underground. But I’m guessing it’s been at least a couple of hours.” Beckett turned to look at Hayes. “How long was I gone?”

Hayes glanced at his watch. It was currently 2:00 a.m. They’d left the Rosario’s house around 6:00 p.m. Beckett had gone missing shortly after their arrival.

“You disappeared around 4:00 p.m. That gives us an 8-hour window. I’m guessing you were stabbed at least 2 hours ago.”

“The wound should have stopped bleeding by now,” Chase confirmed unhappily. “Alright, Monroe—what are we working with?” he said as he stifled a yawn.

And so began the complex process of removing the existing bandage, disinfecting the wounded area, applying butterfly bandages, and covering the area with fresh gauze. It would be best if Beckett saw a doctor in the morning, but since Chase wasn’t an idiot, he prescribed a load of antibiotics they’d need to pick up in the morning if they didn’t get around to a hospital visit. Which had a high chance of probability of not ever happening, since this was Beckett they were dealing with.

“Those ribs are going to need X-rays,” Chase grumbled right as Beckett was preparing to say goodbye.

“I never said my ribs were injured!” he complained.

“You didn’t need to—I’ve seen your ouch-it-hurts-to-breathe face too many times not to know,” Chase said, stabbing his finger at the screen accusingly.

“I’ll get him checked out,” Hayes vowed.

Chase gave a nod of satisfaction.

“Stay safe—whatever crazy shit you’re up to.”

And neither of them could promise that so they just said thanks and hung up.

“What now?” Beckett asked. They were still occupying the living room couch of Matthew’s condo. Neither of them had eaten in the past 12 hours, and though the clock on the mantel read 2:45 a.m., Hayes was too wired to sleep.

“Shower, eat—”

“Sex?” Beckett asked, hopeful, though both of them knew perfectly well no one would be getting lucky any time soon. Not when most of Beckett’s body was currently a mass of colorful bruises with some cracked ribs that hurt with every breath.

“Sleep,” Hayes said. “Shower, eat, and sleep. We can’t do anything until the FBI decides to make a move. We’ll have to lie low and hope it works out,” Hayes said, stating aloud what they both knew needed to happen.

“I hate this place,” Beckett said, looking around at the boring, sterile condo.

“I can drive us back to the safe house,” Hayes suggested. Beckett grimaced, clearly not looking forward to a car ride in his current state. Finally, he shook his head.

“I just need clean clothes,” he finally declared.

Hayes gave a curt nod of agreement.

Showering was a major production. It involved tape, garbage bags, and a whole lot of cursing, but by 3:30 a.m., Hayes was rather proud to have a clean, and fed, Beckett tucked safely in bed next to him. Matthew had scrounged up a bottle of Tylenol for him. While it wasn’t nearly strong enough to kill the pain, when coupled with a shot of scotch, Beckett looked comfortable enough to finally get at least a few hours of rest.

“Thank you,” Beckett sighed gratefully, totally exhausted.

Hayes responded by pressing himself against Beckett’s back. Inhaling the comforting scent of his unique blend of sandalwood and leather that permeated his skin, Hayes tucked his nose into the bend of his neck and drifted off.

The next day was riddled with contradictions. Hayes got exactly what he wanted. Which was an entire day with Beckett tucked in bed, recovering from his journey through hell—safe and sound. Hayes stuck to him like glue, never letting him out of his sight, so he could keep him safe at all times. They’d even moved back to their original home base of operations, which had eased some of the tension in the air. Unfortunately, that had been short-lived.

While Hayes had been craving some peace and quiet, Beckett was a terrible patient to be around. He hated being told that he couldn’t be a part of the action. He spent a lot of his time complaining. Even going so far as to call the feds on the case “slower than fucking sloths with broomsticks jammed up their asses.”