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Wes barely made any noise as he moved through the kitchen of the run-down house, taking in the fading color on the cupboards and the wallpaper that was peeling away from the wall where a damp spot had started forming, growing steady larger as it had gone untreated.
His pace was light and deliberate, his breathing was slow and measured, rhythmic, he had his ears pricked for any kind of noise that could point to unwanted company. He stopped for a second, listening. The house was quiet.
Wes moved from the kitchen into what appeared to be the dining room of the run-down one-storey house. The dining room wasn’t in a much better state than the kitchen. The room looked worn down and dirty, the table had been collecting dust for about as long as it had taken for the cobwebs to be clearly visible in the upper corners of the room. It smelled about as bad as it looked.
“Clear,” Wes yelled to alert Travis to the fact he was moving towards the front of the house, which Travis should be clearing. He received no response.
“Travis?” he yelled out, wondering what had happened to his partner.
“In here,” came Travis’s response from the room he was heading towards.
“Travis, you’re supposed to-” Wes cut off his reprimand when Travis came into view, or more specifically, when the knife that Travis had against his throat glinted in the dim, artificial light of the living room. Travis had his hands raised in surrender, his gun had been tossed on the ground out of his reach. Their suspect, slightly taller than Travis, had a decidedly freaked out and crazy look in his eyes. Wes had to wonder how he had not only gotten the jump on Travis but also managed to keep it quiet. Unless Travis had moved in too soon and Wes had still been out-back in the garden.
Wes raised his gun again. “You okay there, partner?” he asked, eyes briefly flickering over Travis’s body and resting on his face, satisfied when he saw no signs of blood or injury.
“Could be worse,” Travis replied, with a small shrug of his shoulders.
“You can’t be in here,” their suspect started, voice bordering on hysterics. “You’ll lead them straight to me. They can’t find me! If they find me, I have to- I have to do things I don’t want to.”
“Okay, calm down,” Wes said, lowering his gun slightly and putting one palm up in a conciliatory gesture. “They won’t find you. We were very careful, we weren’t followed.”
“You can’t know that. Not for sure. They have ways,” the suspect said, eyes flitting about the room as if he suspected the demons he was so afraid of were going to jump out at him any second.
Wes didn’t have a lot of patience or people skills in the best of the situations but unfortunately, this situation required a ton of it. Daniel Wiggins had broken out of a mental institution. From what his doctor had decided to share, he was instable at best and delusional at worst. After his prison break, he’d left two bodies in his wake. Witnesses had heard him babbling about demons and ghosts that were out to get them and that had the possessed the people he’d killed. Or set free, according to his own truth.
Their investigation had relatively quickly led them to this house once he’d been identified. The house was a family home that had been vacated years ago, when Daniel had had his first breakdown.
“Alright. Well, we have ways too. We are detectives after all, we know when we’re followed and we know when someone is out to hurt us. We’re not here to hurt you, Daniel, are we, Travis?” Wes asked.
“Not at all,” Travis agreed. “We’re just here to talk.”
Daniel’s breath came in short, panicked bursts that even Wes could hear from where he was standing on the other side of the room. Daniel’s eyes darted between Wes, the door and the back of Travis’s head. Wes tried to inch a little closer, slowly bypassing one couch.
“Stop! Don’t move!” Daniel yelled, once he’d caught on to Wes moving. His knife hand started shaking. Travis winced when the point nicked his throat. The indecision was written all over Daniel’s face. This wasn’t going well. Wes didn’t have a clear shot either.
“Okay, I’m not moving anymore,” Wes spoke calmly.
“You’re lying! He’s lying. You’re here to trick me. I saw it in his eyes when he came into the living room. He’s possessed,” Daniel babbled, voice rising as he was starting to convince himself off that delusion. “His eyes, man, they were… He tricked you too, didn’t he? You probably didn’t know. I can help you. I can set him free.”
Daniel pressed the knife a little harder against Travis’s throat. Travis tried to jerk back but the action only caused Daniel to intensify the pressure.
Wes kept his gaze firmly fixed on Daniel’s face. “He’s not possessed. I’m his partner. I would know if something was up with him, okay?” Wes tried to soothe him. The grip on his gun tightened. His eyes flickered over to Travis’s face this time. Travis gave him a minute shake of his head, indicating he had no room to move to the side enough to give Wes a clear shot.
“Then you’re possessed, too. I knew it! You found me. I tried to – but you found me. Of course you would, of course – I can’t believe I – Oh my god, what am I going to do?” Daniel babbled, eyes frantic now. Daniel’s arm was shaking. Wes could now very clearly see a fine trickle of blood running down Travis’s throat.
This was getting out of hand and Wes didn’t have a clear shot, damn it.
“Put the knife down, Daniel. We’re not possessed. You’ve already killed two people. It’s time to drop that knife and come with us so we can help you,” Wes said, trying to insert as much authority in his voice as possible.
It didn’t seem to be getting through to Daniel as he unraveled further. He was muttering to himself now, too quiet for Wes to hear, but from the way Travis’s eyes widened and his body jerked, it wasn’t anything good.
“Wes,” Travis grit out, a warning, a plea for help.
“Daniel, listen to me. We’re cops. We can’t be possessed, okay? The demons know that. They can’t possess the good guys, that’s not how it works. They’re scared of us. There’s no way they would be in this room with us right now,” Wes said urgently, a little desperately.
Daniel shook his head. “No. No, you’re trying to trick me. I have to – I know what I have to do. But I don’t want to, I can’t. Not again. There’s too much blood. I can’t.”
“Then don’t. You don’t have to. Drop the knife!” Wes said, voice almost rising to a shout. He managed to restrain himself just in time.
Daniel was still shaking his head. Wes could tell he wasn’t getting through to him. A litany of muttered ‘no’s’ reached his ears.
Daniel pulled the knife away from Travis’s throat. For a second, Wes thought he had talked himself out of killing Travis, but in the next instant, the knife was angling down and Daniel stabbed Travis in the side, Daniel’s other arm coming around Travis’s chest to keep him in place.
“No!” Wes yelled. Travis gasped, a shocked and pained sound.
“I’m sorry, I have to,” Daniel said, eyes clouded over with misery and even tears. He pulled the knife out. Travis was still trapped but with the knife no longer against his throat or in his body, he managed to slump down far enough, out of Wes’s line of fire.
Wes didn’t hesitate. He took aim and put a bullet in Daniel’s shoulder. The sudden impact of the hit was enough for Daniel to release his hold of Travis and to stumble back with a shocked expression on his face. He dropped the knife instinctively, his now free hand coming up to press against the blood.
Travis slumped to the floor, missing the coffee table by about an inch.
Wes hurried to Daniel first, kicking the knife out of reach. He none too gently pulled Daniel’s hand away from his wound, pulling his arms behind his back to cuff his wrists together. Daniel wasn’t saying anything, expression frozen in one of shock and fear. Wes deposited him none too gently on the couch.
He reached for his cell phone as he made his way over to Travis’s side.
Travis had pulled himself up into a sitting position, back leaning against the couch and hand pressed to his wound. Wes crouched down beside him, cell phone to his ear to call it in and requesting two ambulances and some back-up, asap. He gave them the address and hung up, shoving the cell phone back in his pocket and shrugging out of his suit jacket in the same move.
“Okay, here, here, we’re going to press this against the wound,” Wes said, tugging on Travis’s wrist. His hand came away bloody. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but Wes still felt faintly sick at the sight of the blood, which was already pooling on the ground. Wes pressed the jacket against the wound with two hands and applied pressure.
“Don’t –” Travis grunted, too late. “You’re ruining your jacket.”
“Let’s not worry about my jacket right now,” Wes said, feeling a little twinge that this jacket was going to have to be thrown out, but also not caring all that much considering Travis was bleeding.
“Let’s not worry about me either. I’ll be fine. I’m always fine,” Travis noted, with a slight grin on his face.
Wes gave him a skeptical once over. Sweat was beading on his brow. His expression was taking on a decidedly glazed glow and the hand that was resting in his lap was shaking.
“You’re going into shock,” Wes pointed out, unhelpfully, but feeling the need to say something, anything. He swallowed back a wave of worry and guilt. He’d failed. He was supposed to have Travis’s back and he’d failed.
“Okay, stop,” Travis broke through his thoughts. If he was meant to sound commanding, he was missing the mark by about a mile. The tremors and pain were clear in his voice.
“Stop what?” Wes asked.
Travis waved a hand in the air, probably to encompass his entire being. “The guilt. I can literally hear you feeling guilty. The deer in the headlight look is a dead giveaway, too.”
Wes pursed his lips, stopped himself from saying all the things he wanted to say on that topic. They could hash it out later. Right now, Travis didn’t look good. Right now, Wes wasn’t going to spend minutes arguing with him. So he stayed quiet, applied just that little more pressure, which earned him another grunt and a pointed glare.
“Did you leave the door open?” Wes asked, as he heard the sound of sirens in the distance.
Travis nodded.
“Good, that’s good. The ambulance is going to be here soon,” Wes said.
“I haven’t gone deaf,” Travis muttered. The lines around his eyes betrayed the pain he was in. A hint of fear lurked in his eyes as well.
“I’m so glad a stab wound doesn’t deter you from being annoying,” Wes remarked.
Travis’s expression changed to one of utter disbelief. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be a dick to me right now.”
“I can be a dick and keep you alive, I’m awesome like that.”
“You’re something alright,” Travis muttered under his breath. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
“… Maybe,” Travis allowed. He sighed and then winced. “Getting stabbed hurts like a bitch.”
“I’m sure some pretty nurses will you cheer you right up.”
“If I don’t bleed out first,” Travis said, jokingly.
Wes didn’t find it particularly funny. “Hey, no one’s bleeding out. The ambulance is going to be here any second now.”
As if on cue, the noise of sirens got exponentially louder before cutting out completely. Four paramedics rushed in, two coming towards Wes and two going to Daniel, who had still not moved or said anything.
The paramedics introduced themselves as Jesse and Emma. Wes moved out of the way so they could check over Travis. He glanced back over at Daniel who was receiving treatment for his shoulder, but all in all, he seemed to be doing relatively okay.
More sirens were heard in the distance. The back-up to escort Daniel to the hospital and seal the house. The paramedics working on Daniel were already moving him off of the couch.
“No, no, wait, he doesn’t go anywhere until my partners are here,” Wes said.
“He needs a hospital, sir,” one of the paramedics said.
“He’ll live,” Wes said, not all that kindly. “He’s not to be moved until they’re here, got it?”
The paramedics nodded, reluctantly.
“Sir, we’re moving your partner,” Jesse broke in.
Travis was already strapped to a gurney, precautionary oxygen mask placed on his face and morphine probably coursing through his system if the way the lines of pain on his face had straightened out were anything to go by.
“Yes, fine, go,” Wes said, with a wave of his hand, then, “Wait.” Wes moved to Travis’s side, patted his arm a little awkwardly. “I’m going to wait until the back-up gets here and then I’ll be right behind you, okay?”
Travis gave him a thumbs up.
“Take care of him,” Wes said to Jesse and Emma. They nodded and wheeled Travis out. Wes watched them go with a mixture of relief, apprehension and fear. Travis wasn’t out of the woods yet.
xx
Wes sat staring at his hands in the hospital waiting room, elbows on his knees, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to hide the worst of the blood that had seeped into the material. He’d scrubbed and washed his hands, but somehow, they still felt sticky, somehow it felt like he could still see traces of blood between the lines of his fingers and underneath his fingernails. It was his mind playing tricks on him, mostly, but it was hard to get the image of his blood-stained hands out of his head.
Wrapping up at the scene had taken a little longer than expected. He’d had to give his statement to Kate and Amy, then call captain Sutton to update him. By the time he’d made it to the hospital, Travis had been in surgery, where he’d been for the better part of the two hours that he’d been sitting at the hospital, alternatively staring at the clock in the waiting room, which was driving him absolutely crazy and was taunting him with how slow time was going, and at his hands.
Travis was going to be fine, there was not a doubt in his mind. And yet, the more time passed, the harder it became to quench that feeling of worry that had started in the pit of his stomach and appeared to be wanting to consume him whole. He couldn’t give into the faint spikes of panic that accompanied the ever growing knot of worry. Travis was going to be fine. He had to be.
His hands appeared to be taking on a red-ish hue again. For what had to be the tenth time, Wes got up and marched over to the toilets, shoving his hands under a stream of cold, soothing water and scrubbing. The water that swirled down the drain didn’t have the faintest hint of red but Wes still spent a good couple of minutes just washing up. Eventually, he turned off the faucet and glanced at himself in the mirror.
He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was sticking up in even weirder angles than usual, no doubt due to the amount of times he’d run his fingers through his hair in agitation. He looked pale, almost white under the fluorescent lighting. He shook his head at himself.
Travis was going to be fine.
He repeated that mantra while he walked back to the waiting room. He changed his mind last minute and headed for the coffee machine instead. Not that he hadn’t had enough coffee as it was, but he wanted to delay having to sit in that depressing space, with nothing but that damn clock, for a little while longer.
His hands were shaking as he pushed some change into the machine and pressed the button for a coffee.
Maybe he should have taken the captain’s advice, maybe he should have talked to doctor Ryan. Her advice was utter rubbish for them most of the time, but she had to be able to deal with situations like these, wouldn’t she? There had a be a way to deal with the worry he felt.
If she were here, she would probably tell him to dig deeper, find the underlying cause of his anxiety.
Of course he was scared to lose Travis.
For all that they fought, argued and bickered, there was simply no one else who Wes could see himself partnering with. Despite their vastly different characters and their vastly different outlooks on not just life, but on how to be a cop, they worked.
True, for a while they hadn’t, for a while Wes had genuinely thought their partnership was beyond repair thanks to that ill-fated day Wes still had trouble thinking about, but Travis had stuck around, had given him crap, had fought him tooth and nail, verbally and physically, but he’d stayed, which had in turn given Wes the strength to push through his own feelings: anger with Travis for putting him in a situation for pulling a gun on him, disappointment with both himself and Travis that they’d gotten so far off track that Wes hadn’t been able to get through to him, guilt at having betrayed his partner in the worst possible way and helplessness and anxiety at the way they spiraled further before it started to get better.
As much as he loathed to admit it, couples’ therapy was doing them some good.
So no, there was no version of how this could play out that ended with him losing Travis. It was not an option.
Especially not because it was his fault, because he’d failed so spectacularly that he’d gotten his partner stabbed. He’d already replayed the scene in his head, over and over again, repeated Daniel’s words and his own, tried to figure out where he should have played along more or where he should have drawn the line and asserted his authority. If the situation had been reversed, there was no doubt in his mind that Travis would have talked Daniel down without there being so much as a scratch on Wes. Travis would have figured out the right combination of compassion and no-nonsense attitude. Every time he replayed the scene in his head, he came up with another answer, another way of approaching the situation. It was driving him crazy, but there was not much else to do while he waited for news, any news.
Wes didn’t realize how far into his own head he’d gone until he blinked and that damn clock was taunting him again.
Another hour had passed.
xx
Wes was jiggling his right foot restlessly, knee moving up and down in rapid, jerky movements. It didn’t do anything to ease the tension, worry or guilt, but he was going stir-crazy, yet he refused to move. He was sure the doctor would be back any minute now.
He glanced at the clock. Resisted the urge to throw something at it to shatter the damn thing. Jiggled his knee up and down a little harder.
Footsteps approached. Wes’s head automatically snapped up. Not that it had to mean anything. It hadn’t the last dozen times he’d looked up.
This time though, this time a man in a white overcoat who looked distinctly tired but also relieved, entered. Wes shot to his feet.
“Mr. Mitchell?”
“That’s me. How is he?” Wes asked, making a very conscious effort not to tap his foot on the floor while he awaited an answer.
“He’ll be fine. He lost a significant amount of blood and we had to fix an internal building, but his vital organs weren’t hit. He’ll be sore for a while because the knife did hit muscle, but nothing that some rest won’t fix.”
Wes resisted the urge to ask him why it had taken so damn long if it wasn’t that bad, but refrained just in time. He swallowed back some decidedly angry words that the doctor didn’t deserve and held out his hand instead.
“Thanks, doctor. Can I see him?” Wes asked.
“He’s still in the ICU. He won’t be moved until the anesthetic has worn off and he’s come to, which won’t be a while at least. It’s getting late anyway and visiting hours are over. I suggest you get some rest and come back in the morning,” the doctor said kindly, giving him a once over and coming to a conclusion that Wes probably didn’t like but didn’t much care to think about right now.
“I want to see him,” Wes said, stubbornly.
“Mr. Mitchell-”
“Doc, that’s my partner and he got stabbed in front of me. I have been sitting here for hours, waiting. I just… I need to see him before I leave,” Wes finished, not liking the plea that had subtly crept into his tone of voice.
The doctor scrutinized him for a couple of long seconds, then finally nodded. “Fine. I will take you to him. You have exactly five minutes.”
Wes gave him a grateful smile and followed him through a couple of long corridors and hallways. The doctor pushed the door to the ICU open and nodded towards the second cubicle from the left. “Five minutes,” he reminded him. “I’ll be waiting here.”
Wes nodded his thanks.
His feet carried him forward. He drew back the curtain with mixed feelings of utter relief and apprehension. The feeling was replaced by a sense of absolute calm when he caught a glimpse of Travis, sleeping peacefully and breathing evenly. He blew out a breath and felt the weight that been sitting on his chest ever since Travis had gotten stabbed, loosen. He hadn’t realized how much breathing had hurt until he could breathe freely again.
He sat down gingerly on the side of the bed, placing his hand on Travis’s bare arm. His skin felt warm to touch.
Wes would adamantly deny it later if anyone asked, but in that moment, he choked up a little bit. It was probably a consequence of all the emotion draining away, leaving him calm but exhausted. Satisfied that Travis was, in fact, alive, he squeezed his partner’s arm, a gesture more for Wes’s benefit than Travis’s and left the hospital.
xx
Despite feeling safe in the knowledge that Travis was going to be okay, Wes had a hard time falling asleep and a harder time staying asleep. He gave up around six a.m. when it became apparent there was no good enough way to shut down his brain or to prevent the inevitable nightmares from plaguing him.
He arrived at the hospital just as visiting hours were starting. Sometime last night, Travis had been moved to a regular, single room, which Wes was directed to by the front desk. The door was closed so Wes knocked before he entered, relieved to find Travis awake and alert, sitting up in bed.
“Please tell me you’re here to get me out of this place. I don’t like hospitals,” was Travis’s greeting.
“I’m sure they don’t like you either with all that complaining,” Wes remarked, dryly, taking a seat next to Travis’s bed.
Travis looked affronted. “Everyone and everything likes me. The nurses think I’m awesome, man,” he replied, with a sly grin that bordered on a leer and was thus absolutely disgusting. Wes told him so.
Travis’s grin widened. “I’m awesome, more like it.”
“You’re something, alright,” Wes parroted in the same tone as Travis had spoken to him the day before.
That got him a hearty chuckle, which, unfortunately ended in a wince, and oh right, everything was not normal.
“Are you okay?” Wes asked then.
“‘Course I am. I’m me,” Travis said with a shrug. Wes gave him an unimpressed look that clearly said don’t lie to me. “It hurts,” he conceded. “But all in all, it could have been worse.”
It could have been your throat, Wes thought but didn’t say out loud.
Something in his expression, or the fact that it was flitting about the room, no longer able to settle on Travis, must have given him away.
“Hey, hey, none of that, man. Stop with the guilt trip, pity party, or whatever it is that’s happening inside of your brain right now, because honestly, you look like shit and deserve to be in a bed next to mine,” Travis observed, not at all unkindly but with a hint of worry and more than a little exasperation in his voice.
“Look, Travis, I’m -”
Travis cut him off before he could get the apology out. “Nope, no, you can’t say it. I don’t want to hear it.”
“That’s too bad, because I’m going to say it. You can keep fighting me or you can shut the hell up and listen for a second,” Wes said determinedly.
Travis sighed, raised his eyes to the ceiling, but gestured to him in a way that was probably meant to convey Go ahead, if you must and insist on ruining my day by talking about feelings.
“As I was trying to say,” Wes took a deep breath and swallowed, “it’s my fault you’re in here. I should have, I don’t know, done something, anything else, really, to stop him. I should have acted faster, or said something else, or tried a different approach. He could have – you know. And I wouldn’t have been able to stop him, not fast enough. I should have your back, you should be able to trust me, and I let you down, so I’m sorry,” Wes finished, lamely. There were a lot of other things he wanted to say, could say, but the scrutiny Travis was studying him with was slightly daunting and a little disturbing. He’d got out the cliff notes version of his apology, in any case.
Travis continued to eye and scrutinize him skeptically for a couple of long seconds, probably trying to process the amount of words, relating to feelings that had come out of his mouth in one sitting.
“Wes, I’m going to say this once. If it doesn’t set in, I will not waste any more words and just resort to smacking you silly, which, trust me, I can still do. Are you ready?” Travis asked, waiting expectantly until Wes had grudgingly nodded. “The guy was batshit crazy and believed in demons. No amount of talking would have convinced him that all was right with the world. There was nothing else you could have done. Shit happens sometimes. I know you’ve got some control issues sometimes, but you can’t control everything. This is not your fault, understood?”
Wes debated the merits of arguing and pointing out all the reasons why Travis was dead wrong, but by the way Travis’s eyes narrowed the longer he kept quiet, he didn’t doubt Travis was going to carry out his threat of smacking him. He didn’t want Travis to exert himself and hurt himself further in any case.
He nodded slowly.
“Say it,” Travis ordered threateningly.
“It’s not my fault,” Wes repeated, with a note of reluctance in his voice that Travis either didn’t pick up on or deemed not word his time to dole out his punishment.
Travis nodded, expression clearing and an easy smile on his face replacing the serious expression. “Now, about that escape plan…”