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this-darkness-light · 7 years ago

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Critical Incident Chapter 1

Read it on Ao3!

Pairing: Fritz Howard/Gavin Q. Baker III Rating: Explicit Fandom: The Closer/Major Crimes Word Count: 10,920 Summary: Gavin is taken hostage by two criminals on the run from the FBI, and it’s up to Fritz to save him.

Tags: AU - canon compliant, Major Crimes era, Fritz is still in the FBI though, because I prefer that, kidnapping, hostage situation, bondage, I’m a sick fuck and I cannot lie, BAMF Fritz, some angst

Warnings: non-consensual touching, but the bastard gets his comeuppance, no rape in this fic!

Tagging: @brieflymaximumprincess -.-.-.-.-Chapter One: The Plot-.-.-.-.- Gavin has waved the last client of the day out of his office and is finishing up the attorney/client contract over a cup of fabulously delicious and much needed espresso when his cell phone rings. Saving his progress, he tugs it out of the jacket of his gray Armani suit and takes a sip of his drink as he checks the caller I.D. Warmth blossoms in his chest when he sees Fritz’s name and picture on the screen.

Smiling to himself, he swipes his thumb to answer and leans back in his leather rolling chair, staring out the far window at the blazing summer afternoon sky.

“Hey babe. What’s up?”

“Have you seen the news?” Fritz says without preamble, sounding like a harbinger of doom.

Gavin frowns and tugs the phone away from his ear long enough to throw it some major side-eye. Rude. “Well hello to you too,” he says, swiveling around idly in his chair. Sunlight glinting off the glass coffee table in front of the brown leather new-client sofa stabs his eyes. Wincing, he turns to face the window to his left and stares down at the cars crawling like ants along the already congested streets.

“Just…if you’re near a TV, turn on the news.”

A dozen questions jumble together on the tip of Gavin’s tongue, but the tone of Fritz’s voice tells him not to ask, just do it. Rolling his eyes and grabbing the tiny porcelain cup, because this is not a conversation he can have without caffeine, Gavin sighs himself to his feet and wanders down the tastefully decorated hall to the breakroom.

But he really can’t help himself. He just has to know. “And why am I going somewhere where I might actually have to interact with my colleagues?” he asks, deliberately slurping the espresso loud enough that Fritz can hear that he’s interrupting Gavin’s post-client wind-down ritual with his gruff, vague orders that put him in danger of having to socialize.

“Are you near a TV yet?”

Gavin clutches the phone harder than strictly necessary and shakes his head as the beginnings of a headache start squeezing his temples. Sometimes dating an FBI agent has its drawbacks. Sure, the sex is great. Fabulous, actually. But moments like these, where Gavin is abruptly slapped in the face with the reminder that he’s a mere civilian while Fritz is a government agent make him —

He loses his train of thought as he steps into the breakroom and finds several lawyers and paralegals clustered around the wide-screen television. Quirking his brows and canting his head to the side, Gavin absently rinses his empty cup and joins the small crowd. Lucky for him he’s taller than everyone else and can see the screen just fine. A female news anchor in a stylish navy blue business suit addresses the camera as pictures of two men fade into view above her left shoulder: a bald, clean-shaven Hispanic man with cold dead eyes like a shark, and a thickset white man whose face is smothered by a tangled, reddish-brown beard. At the bottom of the screen, a ribbon of text reads ‘Breaking: Two Suspects Escape Custody, Three FBI Agents In Critical Condition.’

“ — were arrested under suspicion of engaging in organized crime, including murder for hire, extortion, kidnapping, and drug trafficking,” the newscaster is saying. The screen flicks to an aerial scene outside the FBI field office. Chaos reigns on the ground as people dart to and fro while others huddle in small groups. Black-and-white LAPD squad cars and black government-issue SUVs whisk into the parking lot or back out onto the street, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

The news anchor begins describing “frenzied” efforts to capture the criminals, but Gavin doesn’t need to see or hear anymore to know why Fritz is so on edge. Backing quietly away from the lawyers glued to the screen before anyone can see him and start a conversation, he leaves the breakroom and heads back to his office.

“So,” he says as he sinks back into his chair, “I suppose this means you’ll be working late tonight.” Though why Fritz couldn’t just say that to begin with is beyond Gavin. Chewing his cheek so doesn’t actually say that and make Fritz’s day even worse with his snark, he slips off his glasses and and fumbles around in the side desk drawer for some pain killers.

“Pretty much,” Fritz says as Gavin grabs one of the water bottles displaying the firm’s name on the label (so vulgar) and twists off the cap. “Could you — hold on a second.” Something rustles and scratches across the connection and muffled voices rumble in the background, brisk and clipped and, on Fritz’s part, apologetic. As Gavin pops the pills and gulps them down with a grimace, he realizes that Fritz is probably not even supposed to be talking to him right now. The fact that Fritz took the time out of an undoubtedly stressful and highly classified situation to call Gavin and make sure he knew what was going on makes his chest tighten, and he’s glad Fritz couldn’t hear his mental sniping.

Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, he jerks the computer mouse around to banish the screen saver and gets back to work on the new client contract to give himself something to do while waiting for Fritz. Muffled voices drone in his ear as he finishes it up a few minutes later, prints it out, and slips it into a blue manila file folder for medical malpractice suits. That done, he shuts down his computer and busies himself tidying his desk, humming tunelessly to himself.

He’s in the middle of organizing the top drawer when Fritz comes back on the line. “Sorry about that,” he says, voice rough and quick. “Anyway. I need you to do me a huge favor and go to the Police Administration Building after you get done at work.”

Gavin, who’s organizing the pens by size and color, squints at that. “Why?” he asks, a handful of pens poised in front of him.

Fritz sighs, and Gavin knows he’s scrubbing a hand down his face. “Just do it, please? For me?” he asks, a note of desperation slipping into his voice.

And suddenly Gavin realizes what this is all about. Smiling and laughing softly to himself, he plops the pens into their designated slots and shuts the drawer with a snap, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leans back in his chair. “Sweetie, there are more people in Los Angeles than there are in some states. Some countries, even. I doubt those suspects of yours will randomly stumble across me of all people.”

“I’d still feel better if you were somewhere surrounded by cops.”

The last thing Gavin wants to do is bother Sharon and her team over something so ridiculous. There are bad guys on the loose, hide me! No, Gavin Q. Baker has more dignity than to go running to Sharon like a sniveling little child. Besides, they’re probably involved in the manhunt, supporting the FBI. Showing up there now would be pointless. “Do these people even know where we live? Or where my firm is?” he asks, idly playing with his tie as he stares at the ceiling, imagining patterns in the random splatter of dots on the tiles.

“No, but —”

“Then why does it matter where I go? I’m a grown-ass man, Fritz. I think I’ll be fine by myself for a few hours.”

Fritz sighs heavily. “Gavin. Please, just —”

“Love you, Fritz. Bye-bye.” He hangs up before Fritz can protest and tucks his phone back in his jacket pocket so he won’t be tempted to answer if Fritz calls back, which he does. Humming under his breath, Gavin collects his keys and his wallet and lets the call go to voicemail. Really, Fritz is just being paranoid. It’s beyond silly for Fritz to worry about something so improbable, but his sweet concern for Gavin’s safety makes Gavin feel light and weightless all the same.

After twisting the blinds shut to block out the sun, he flicks off the light switch, shuts and locks his office door, and heads out. As he passes the secretary’s desk in the waiting area, footsteps echoing on the white quartz and black granite tiles, she farewells him with a soft “Be safe, Mr. Baker.” Shooting her a broad smile and a playful wink, he pushes open the heavy glass door and heads for the stairwell, waggling his fingers cheerfully in the air.

Fritz — at least he assumes it’s Fritz — calls three more times on his way to the parking garage. Gavin ignores it, drumming his fingers against his leg as he strides through the lobby and out into the relatively fresh air. Honestly, everyone is being absolutely ridiculous. The escapees have probably crawled back into their dark, sleazy criminal underworld by now and won’t poke their heads back out for a good long time. No matter what Fritz might think, Gavin seriously doubts they’re going to spontaneously swarm his car at a red light and drag him into a white panel van or whatever. As he unlocks the door of his burgundy Lexus and slips behind the wheel, he decides to go home. That way he can tell Fritz ‘I told you so’ when nothing happens, and hopefully goad him into dragging Gavin into their bedroom and pounding him into the mattress. The idea makes him warm and tingly and he smiles at his plans for the evening.

Just as Gavin predicts, the drive home is quiet and criminal-free. He spends most of it singing along with the radio and button-mashing the presets whenever boring songs or commercials come on. Not even the typical rush-hour traffic jams spoil his mood. As he finally pulls into the tree-lined gravel driveway of their Laurel Canyon home, his phone buzzes in his pocket and gives the telltale chirp of a text message. After cutting the engine, he takes a moment to stretch and roll the stiffness out of his neck, then tugs out his phone as he locks the car and strolls toward the house, swinging his keys around in his free hand with a rhythmic jangle.

It’s a message from Fritz. CALL ME RIGHT NOW. I MEAN IT!! Gavin snorts fondly. Really, all caps and two exclamation points? My my, how dramatic. Fritz should audition for Days of Our Lives; he’d fit right in. Still, he better call before Fritz has an aneurism or starts shitting bricks. Ha. Fritz shitting bricks. He smirks and chuckles at the admittedly childish rhyme as an old navy blue sedan rounds the corner, engine spluttering like the hillside roads are overwhelming the transmission.

The engine groans to a stop behind Gavin. A door opens and footsteps crunch on the gravel as he swipes a thumb through his contacts list for Fritz’s number. But they have neighbors on either side, so he pays it no mind until he glances around, waiting for Fritz to pick up, and realizes that both of the neighbors’ cars are already there. A slight chill shivers down his spine, but he shakes the feeling off. Fritz’s paranoia is rubbing off on him, that’s all. Obviously one of the neighbors is expecting company, he tells himself as he unconsciously lengthens his stride, nothing sinister about that. Stop overreacting.

Fritz picks up after two more rings. “Gavin! Where are you?” His words shoot out in a rapid fire jumble that Gavin barely catches.

“I just got home,” Gavin says as he jogs up the short flight of steps up to the front porch and thumbs through the keys for the one to the front door. Behind him the footsteps quicken their pace, pounding into the gravel, and despite himself his breath hitches as his pulse stutters into overdrive. His palms are suddenly clammy and he fumbles the keys. Swearing under his breath, he snatches them up and jams the house key into the lock.

“Shit. Get inside, right now, and lock the door.”

“I’m trying, I just —” The lock snicks open at the same time something sharp pricks between his shoulder blades. Gavin freezes and grips the keys so hard his knuckles turn white as adrenaline floods his veins like ice water.

“Hang up the phone, blondie,” a deep voice hisses into his ear. Gavin shudders and stares unseeingly at the door, blinking rapidly. Oh god, Fritz was right. He was right. What are the odds? What the hell are the actual odds? A strangled laugh tries to punch out his throat, but he chokes it down.

The man jabs the blade into Gavin’s back hard enough to draw blood, making him flinch and gasp in pain. “I said, hang up the fucking phone.”

Gavin’s hands are shaking so hard it’s a wonder he hasn’t dropped it. Swallowing harshly, he slowly lowers his phone in a series of short, jerky movements, letting it dangle limply at his side. Fritz’s tinny voice echoes in the silence, frantically calling Gavin’s name. Shit. Fritz is probably miles away, and he has no idea what’s happening. Shit, shit, shit.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Gavin lunges sideways off the porch and lands next to a copse of trees. Jerking the phone back to his ear, he hurtles toward the neighbor’s yard, hoping she’s near a window and can see what’s happening. “Fritz, they’re here, at the house,” he heaves out as he jumps over the row of short hedges dividing their properties. “They —”

Something slams into Gavin’s jaw, snapping his head back. His phone flies through the air and clatters onto the road as he stumbles and trips over his own feet, flinging his arms out to stay upright. If he hits the ground he’s done, he’s dead. Lurching to his right, he manages to catch his balance and flings himself toward the phone, scooping it up — he can’t leave it, it’s his only connection to Fritz — and sprints across the lawn to the neighbor’s house, a cry for help on his lips. But his throat is dry and his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth and nothing comes out when he tries to scream, like he can’t get enough air in his lungs.

He’s almost to her front door when a hulking arm hooks around Gavin’s chest and yanks him back against an equally hulking torso, and the cold, sharp metal of a knife presses against his throat. Gasping, he cringes away from the blade, instinctively clutching at the man’s arm with his free hand and squirming to escape his grasp, but the man’s hold on Gavin is firm. “Stop moving or I’ll kill you right now,” the man hisses into Gavin’s ear. With a twist of his wrist he presses the blade harder against Gavin’s neck, teasing over his jugular. Gavin stills, nearly hyperventilating as his pulse thrashes in his ears.

“Come on, man. We don’t got all day,” a lightly accented voice calls from the sedan. Hispanic, maybe? Gavin can’t really tell, but he doesn’t have the chance think about it too much as the man with the knife yanks him around and drags him toward the old blue sedan. Aside from his captors’ car, the street is empty. Deserted as a church on Monday. Where are the neighbors? Why is nobody seeing this, stopping this, helping him? This is a nice neighborhood, a good part of town. Things like this don’t happen here. So why is this happening? Why?

As they near the car, the man holding Gavin at knifepoint shifts the blade to the back of his neck and shoves him forward. “Open the door and get in.” His tone promises a world of pain if Gavin disobeys.

Gulping in a breath to try and calm himself down, Gavin does as he’s told. He slides across a spliced vinyl seat with chunks of the underlying foam cushion jabbing through the cracks, then flattens himself against the opposite door, clasping his phone to his chest with shaking hands. The inside reeks of sweat and body odor and stale cigarette smoke.

Grinning through the scruffy reddish-brown knots snarling his face, the man who snatched Gavin grabs his upper arm as soon as he’s inside and pulls Gavin away from the door, wrenching a shrill yelp from his throat. He’s brawnier than the mug shot on the news gave him credit for. Bulging muscles strain against the sleeves of his stained black t-shirt.

“Hey there, blondie,” the man says, waggling the knife in Gavin’s face in a friendly reminder that he’s now a hostage. “You’re kind of cute.” He flashes Gavin a yellow, tobacco-stained grin and tugs him close enough that Gavin can smell the acrid stench of cigarettes on his breath. Gavin pulls a face and jerks back, wanting to be next to this vulgar oaf as much as he wants to jump in a sewer in his best Armani suit. The man just snickers and hauls him forward again, wrapping a meaty arm around his shoulders so he can’t pull away and stroking his hand along Gavin’s bicep. A ball of lead forms in his gut and bile burns the back of his throat. He swallows it down harshly, because as satisfying as it might be to throw up on his captor, he’s pretty damn sure he’ll stab Gavin for it or slit his throat or stab him and then slit his throat for good measure, and what little short-term satisfaction he’d get is just not worth dying for.

Sirens howl in the near distance like a pack of wolves on the hunt. The bearded man tenses and squeezes Gavin’s shoulder, looking fixedly down the street as though expecting a throng of cops to swing around the corner. A faint glimmer of hope breaks through the smoggy vapors of fear suffocating Gavin’s chest, and he just knows that Fritz is out there right now, looking for him. Fritz will rescue him. He must have known the criminals were in the neighborhood; that must be why he told Gavin to go anywhere but home, only Gavin was too goddamn proud to listen. Please be out there, he says silently to himself like a mantra. Please, please, please.

To Gavin’s extreme disappointment and the criminals’ obvious relief, no cops show up. The driver jerks around in his seat and scowls back at them, beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his bald head. “Stop fucking around back there and tie him up.” His voice snaps like a whip.

Grumbling under his breath, the bearded criminal forces Gavin to kneel in the foot space amidst a heap of old fast food wrappers and discarded tissues and cigarette butts, then slots himself behind him, far too close for Gavin’s liking. He chokes on the cloud of B.O. and tobacco that shrouds him and tries to pull away, but the cool metal of another knife slides beneath his chin like a dangerous promise. Gavin’s heart snaps against his chest, mind numb and paralyzed with fear, and he hugs his phone to himself like a lifeline.

Of course the driver notices, because Gavin’s luck is currently for shit. Fast as a snake striking a mouse, he snatches the phone out of Gavin’s hands and tosses it onto the passenger seat out of his reach. “Can’t have you calling for help,” he says with a sneer, pinning Gavin in place with his cold, shark-eyed gaze. “Now put your hands up.”

Mindful of the blade pricking at the juncture of his throat and jaw, Gavin gives a small jerky nod to signal his cooperation and slowly raises his shaking hands to the level of his ears. He’s too afraid his voice will crack or jump an octave if he tries to speak. A pained whimper escapes his lips as the bearded criminal wrenches his hands behind his back, cinching them together with something cool and smooth, like a leather belt. It’s so tight he can feel his hands going numb from loss of circulation.

“You look good tied up,” the bearded criminal whispers against the back of his neck as he manhandles Gavin back onto the seat and drapes his massive arm around him again. “I like it.” Gavin shudders and squeezes his eyes shut to block it all out. This is just a dream. Just a bad dream. He fell asleep at his desk and is having a nightmare based on the news. He’ll wake up anytime now and laugh about it later with Fritz while they’re cuddling in post-coital bliss.

A cacophony of sirens and squealing tires explodes in the quiet street. Gavin snaps his eyes open in time to see a pack of squad cars and black SUVs careen around the corner and skid to a halt, surrounding the sedan. Warmth jolts through his body and his breath hitches as uniformed officers pour out of the cars, guns trained on the sedan, screaming orders for the criminals to come out with their hands up. The police! Yes! Oh thank god. Gavin cranes his neck to see if Fritz is leading the pack, or maybe Sharon and her team. Maybe both. Both is good.

Before he can process what’s happening, the bearded criminal yanks Gavin in front of him like a human shield and positions him so he’s behind the gap between the driver and passenger seats, in full view of the cops outside. A muscled arm snakes itself around Gavin’s waist, pulling him flush against the criminal’s chest, and the sharp edge of a knife jabs against his pulse point. “Back off or blondie here’s dead,” the bearded criminal shouts, angling the blade so it catches the late afternoon light.

Gavin winces at the assault to his eardrums. He has no idea if the cops can hear anything, but they get the gist nonetheless. From his new vantage point, Gavin watches as the nearest officers exchange wide-eyed looks and slowly shuffle back, obviously waiting for someone in charge to tell them how to handle this unexpected situation.

For what seems like hours, nothing happens. The cops confer quietly outside, casting furtive frowns at the car. Gavin locks eyes with one of the officers but flushes and quickly lowers his gaze, hating how exposed he is, out on display like he’s some kind of goddamn trophy. Suddenly he’s glad Fritz isn’t here to see him like this, so helpless and weak. Especially after Fritz warned him, practically begged him to go to the precinct. God, he wishes he’d just listened for once instead of being so stubborn.

Movement outside pulls him from his thoughts, and he looks up to see a tall, dark-haired man in a blue FBI jacket striding forward through the clustered uniformed cops, a bullhorn clutched at his side. Gavin’s heart plummets into his stomach as he realizes who it is and he pulls back, needing to hide before he’s seen, but the driver reaches back and grabs a fistful of his hair to hold him in place at the same time the bearded criminal slices the blade deeper into his neck. He flinches as blood trickles down his neck.

Outside, Agent Fritz Howard raises the bullhorn to his lips. “Israel Espinoza. Joseph McCray,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice that would have Gavin burning up for entirely different reasons under very different circumstances. “Release your —” Fritz’s jaw drops and his eyes widen. “Gavin,” he chokes out, voice strangled even with the bullhorn amplifying the volume.

Every eye on the street swivels onto Gavin, burning into him like a thousand laser beams. A hot flood of shame washes over him and he can’t bear to look Fritz in the eye. Biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, he hunches his shoulders and stares at Fritz’s shiny black shoes. God, he hates himself for letting this happen. For putting Fritz in this position. At this point he’d give anything to make it all end, to just make it stop.

The driver, whose name is apparently Israel Espinoza, slaps the side of his head, and with a start Gavin realizes that he asked him a question. “I said, you know this guy? Answer me,” he snarls, shaking Gavin when he doesn’t immediately reply. The blade snicks his skin again, and Gavin flinches as another stream of blood joins the first.

“I — yes, yes I know him,” he gasps out. Apparently this isn’t good enough, because Espinoza slaps him harder. “How?”

Gavin knows he should lie and tell them that Fritz is a friend or a distant cousin, anything but the truth, but even now, even here, he just can’t make himself do it. Licking his dry lips, he swallows harshly and says, “He’s…my partner.

”Espinoza’s brows furrow as he glances from Gavin to Fritz and back again. Then a slow, wicked grin settles on his face as he realizes exactly what Gavin means by ‘partner,’ and he grabs Gavin’s phone from the passenger seat, waggling it in the air. Fritz gets the gist and digs his phone out of his pants pocket. Moments later the shrill ringtone fills the car.

“I got your boy here, Agent,” Espinoza says, canting his head at Gavin without taking his eyes off Fritz. A sour taste burns in the back of Gavin’s throat and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, wishing he could spontaneously combust and put himself out of this misery. “You want him back, tell your men to stand down and let us through.”

Fritz is still gaping at Gavin, shell-shocked, the forgotten bullhorn drifting back down to his side. Gavin longs to dive out the passenger door and run to Fritz, letting him know Gavin’s safe, he’s fine, and he’s sorry for being such an idiot, so, so sorry. But he knows even trying will get him killed and that means never seeing Fritz again, and worse, hurting Fritz even more than he already has, and that’s not something he has the strength or the desire to do.

When Fritz still hasn’t said anything a few moments later, Espinoza jerks his head at McCray. The bearded criminal squeezes the handle of the blade and digs the tip further into the juncture of Gavin’s neck and jaw, forcing him to tilt his head back and expose his throat. “Or we can just kill him right in front of you. Your call,” Espinoza tells Fritz. Gavin’s chest is so tight it hurts and he can’t breathe. Being humiliated like this is one thing, but being humiliated like this in front of Fritz? Forget spontaneous combustion. He wishes the ground would bottom out in a sink hole and swallow the car whole.

The direct threat against Gavin’s life seems to snap Fritz out of his shock. Nostrils flaring he takes a few steps toward the car, planting his legs wide, and sweeps the bullhorn back up to his mouth. Several uniformed officers fan out behind him, guns trained at the windshield. “Let me talk to Gavin.” A hot flush burns across Gavin’s face. No, he can’t talk to Fritz. Not when the last thing Fritz said to him was to go to the precinct, and his response had basically been “haha, nope. Bye.” If he’d listened, this wouldn’t be happening. It’s all his fault and he knows it, and he doesn’t need Fritz rub it in.

But Espinoza shrugs and presses the phone to his ear, and Fritz lowers the bullhorn to keep their conversation private.

“Gavin.” Fritz’s voice bursts across the line like sunlight bursting from behind a cloud, and a pang fills Gavin’s chest with yearning. He has to swallow hard twice before he can summon the nerve to reply.

“Hi Fritz.” His voice comes out a shrill, strangled croak. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Hi.”

Outside, Fritz takes a half-step toward the car, then apparently thinks better of it and aborts the movement. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Gavin honestly has no idea how to answer that. He’s definitely not okay, and he’s a little banged up and bleeding, but otherwise not hurt. “I’ve…been better,” he finally says, since this is the closest to the truth he can get. A staticky sound buzzes over the line like Fritz sighed or laughed into the phone.

Before either of them can say anything else, Espinoza jerks the phone away. “Okay, you talked to him. Now fucking stand down or I’m gonna kill your pretty little boyfriend.” Gavin cuts his eyes at the driver at that. He could die happy if no one calls him that ever again. The unexpected prickle of irritation heartens him and he clings to it like a security blanket, wrapping it around himself to stave off the fear snapping and crackling like a livewire at the edges his mind.

Pursing his lips, Fritz juts out his chin and raises the bullhorn. “How about this. You let him go and then get out of the car and lay on the ground with your hands behind your heads, and we settle this without anyone ending up dead.”

Espinoza just laughs. “You think I’m playing, Agent?”

“No, I don’t think you’re playing, Espinoza. I’m not playing either. I’m completely serious.” Fritz’s voice is calm and steady and strong, like waves rolling against a sandy beach. “Let Gavin go and then slowly get out of the car, and no one gets hurt. It’s as simple as that. What do you say?”

Espinoza’s lip curls and he scoffs at Fritz. “You think I’m stupid enough to fall for that? I ain’t going to prison. If it means I have to kill your boy and run all of you over, I’ll do it.” Signaling the end of their conversation, Espinoza tosses Gavin’s phone onto the passenger seat and revs the engine threateningly, making several of the officers flinch. To their credit, none of them take a single step back.

Gavin tenses and a bead of sweat rolls down his back. He hopes he’s not about to become another collateral damage statistic. Surely Fritz won’t allow that. He won’t let Gavin die here today, not like this. Despite himself, images of his own dead body fill his head, riddled with bullet holes and lying in a pool of blood. It’ll be all over the news, top story for at least a week. ‘Prominent Defense Attorney Gavin Q. Baker III Killed in Police Standoff.’ They’ll show his photograph, the poised, dignified one he took for his picture on the partners’ wall at the firm, and then cut to his corpse on a stretcher, covered in a blood-stained —

He gasps as Espinoza stomps on the gas and guns the car toward the end of the street opposite Fritz, slamming Gavin hard against McCray’s chest. The officers in their path dive out their way as they narrowly squeeze between two squad cars, ripping off a side mirror and bashing in a bumper. Gavin watches in the rearview mirror as the cops behind them surge forward and open fire. Bullets ping off the car, exploding the back window. Gavin flinches as shattered glass cascades around him, but the knife at his throat and the criminal’s arm around his waist keep him from taking cover.

Cackling like he’s having the time of his life, Espinoza flips off the police and whips around a corner. Gavin catches one last glimpse in the rearview mirror of Fritz charging down the street, gun trained on the car, and then he’s gone.

Espinoza weaves through the neighborhood at gut-wrenching speeds and then pulls out onto a main thoroughfare, blasting by other cars and weaving back and forth between lanes fast enough to make Gavin’s stomach churn. Swallowing hard, he braces his feet against the floorboards, cringing at every near miss and dizzying swerve. All he can think is that they’re going too fast and he doesn’t have on his seatbelt, because right now those are the safest thoughts he can let himself have.

Sirens scream to life behind them and soon half a dozen squad cars roar onto the street in their wake, lights flashing. Up ahead even more black-and-whites join the fray, cutting them off. A tiny bubble of hope swells in Gavin’s chest — this is it, this is his rescue — but it bursts as Espinoza veers hard onto a side street, temporarily thwarting the cops’ attempt to corral them.

Despite the high speed chase most of the adrenaline from Gavin’s capture has worn off, leaving him shaky and jittery. Unable to keep himself upright, he sags against McCray and stares forlornly out the windshield. A small part of him longs to ask what they intend to do with him. Surely they can’t hold him hostage forever? But the larger part just wants to pretend like the criminals aren’t even there, like this is some kind of joy ride he’s taking with Fritz, even though Fritz always drives five miles under the speed limit and not like a reckless lunatic.

Besides, he’s pretty sure this is going to end in somebody’s funeral.

Something blunt pokes him in the side, making him jump. “Having fun yet, blondie?”

McCray. Gavin grits his teeth and pointedly says nothing, watching the buildings flash by outside like he’s getting paid to do it, though he does sit up a little straighter and rolls his shoulders to ease the growing ache in his joints.

McCray gives a throaty chuckle that grates on Gavin’s already raw nerves. “Ignoring me, huh? Real cute. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.” Chuckling again, he runs his hand up and down Gavin’s side in a very suggestive manner, making Gavin’s skin crawl. Ignore it, he tells himself. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. Hopefully the idiot will get bored and leave him the hell alone if he refuses to engage.

Then something hot and wet swipes along the shell of his ear, and he chokes when he realizes it’s McCray’s tongue. Oh god. The sirens swell in volume as Espinoza makes another sharp turn, and Gavin prays the cops catch them before they get wherever they’re going, because he has zero desire to find out exactly what McCray means by ‘fun.’ All the educated guesses his mind helpfully supplies make him want to throw up.

For what seems like a lifetime Espinoza barrels through the city at breakneck speed, followed by what sounds like every cop in Los Angeles. Then the failing sun bleeds out and the day bruises into night, shrouding the city in an almost total darkness that swallows up the navy blue sedan and throws Gavin’s would-be rescuers off their trail. The fear lurking at the edges of his mind grows steadily stronger the darker it gets, shredding his safety blanket of irritation. By the time Espinoza pulls into the back parking lot of a condemned apartment building, Gavin’s pulse is racing again and he’s gulping down breaths to stay quiet.

Espinoza jumps out of the car almost before the tires have stopped turning, leaving him alone with McCray. Gavin half-heartedly hopes they’ll abandon him here with the car and flee on foot, but of course they don’t. McCray flings open the door and then hauls Gavin out. His knees are wobbly and he almost falls, but the bearded criminal catches him under his arms and sets him back on his feet, shoving him toward a dark, dilapidated building that looks like the next earthquake will knock it down.

A few dying street lamps line the street nearby, casting sickly, flickering orange light onto the sidewalk. Shabby buildings huddle together like they’d all collapse if even one of them fell. The area looks completely abandoned, but Gavin can’t let what might be his last golden opportunity to escape, or at least call for help, pass without doing something.

Gathering his nerve, he bolts to his left toward the street, screaming “Help!” at the top of his lungs. Running with his hands tied behind his back is awkward, but damn it, he does it. One of the criminals swears, and two sets of heavy feet pound the pavement behind him. He’s almost to the litter-clogged curb and halfway through his second scream when one of the criminals punches him hard enough to send him tumbling to the ground, scraping his shoulders and knees and knocking the breath out of his lungs as he lands in a sprawled heap. Coughing, he ignores his newest injuries and lurches up to his knees, but before he can take off again a hand fists into his hair and yanks him up with a shrill yelp.

“Shut up,” McCray growls, clamping a huge hand over Gavin’s mouth before he can scream again. But his depressingly short taste of freedom after what seems like hours of captivity has made him wild, and rather than submit meekly like he did before Gavin thrashes in the man’s grip, jabbing backward with his bound hands and kicking at the man’s kneecaps and biting hard on the thick, meaty fingers over his mouth. Howling in pain, McCray releases him and Gavin dashes blindly away, breath bursting in and out of his heaving chest.

He gets maybe ten feet away before someone grabs him and effortlessly flings him onto the pavement, planting a knee into his back to hold him down. Shit. Spitting out gravel and dirt and blood from his newly cut lip, Gavin struggles to throw the criminal off balance enough that he can get away, but the all too familiar feeling of cool, sharp metal slides against his throat and all the fight drains out of him, leaving him gasping and trembling. Even though he just failed spectacularly, there’s no way they’re not going to punish him for attempting to escape. He just knows it.

Right on cue, Espinoza lumbers into view and kicks Gavin in his side, making him cry out as a starburst of pain sends fiery jolts of adrenaline screaming along his nerves. “You little fucker,” Espinoza snarls, kicking him again. “If that FBI agent wasn’t your boyfriend, I’d kill you right here.” Gavin moans and curls as much into a protective ball as he can with McCray’s knee on his back and the knife against his throat. He’s suddenly very, very glad that he told them Fritz is his partner and not just some random friend. Apparently it’s the only thing keeping him alive, though he can’t help but wonder how much longer that will be, FBI agent boyfriend or not. Sirens wail in the distance, and he hopes it’s long enough for Fritz and the police to find him and save him from this nightmare.

“Come on, let’s go.” Espinoza whirls around and stalks off toward the apartment building. McCray finally removes his knee from Gavin’s back and forces him to his feet.“You’re gonna regret that little stunt, blondie,” he hisses into Gavin’s ear, marching him at knifepoint in Espinoza’s wake. Ice floods Gavin’s veins, but he doesn’t regret his brief moment of rebellion. It proves he still has some fight left, that he’s not completely under their thumbs, knives or no knives. Fritz would be proud. At least Gavin hopes so.

Espinoza leads them down a series of dusty, graffiti-streaked corridors lined with broken glass and flaky chunks of drywall before muscling open the door to what was probably once a nice little one-bedroom apartment. Against all odds, because that’s apparently the shape of Gavin’s luck tonight, the apartment still has electricity flowing through the dilapidated fixtures. Ratty green curtains frame the window, and there’s enough grime on the glass to hide the glare of lights from any curious eyes that happen to wander by in a squad car.

Whoever the previous tenants were must have left in a hurry, abandoning most, if not all, of their possessions. Espinoza goes to the window, flicking back the raggedy curtain and peering through the film of muck into the parking lot. McCray nudges Gavin none too gently toward the kitchenette, where two rickety chairs sit in front of an equally rickety round table. The floor creaks under his feet, making him glad they’re not on the second story, and the musty stench of mold and mildew fills the air with the incense of decay. Something shifts and skitters behind the walls and he grimaces. Rats. Oh dear lord, that’s just fabulous.

“Sit down, blondie.” McCray slams Gavin into one of the chairs before he has a chance to comply.

Apparently satisfied that they weren’t followed, Espinoza joins them in the kitchenette. “Go find something to tie him up with. I’ll watch him.” He unpockets his knife and presses the blade flush against Gavin’s jugular so he can’t make a mad dash for the door. Gavin winces, but at this point he’s too exhausted to do much besides scowl up at the criminal smirking down at him and imagine how he’d look in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit and a life sentence in a maximum security prison.

McCray nods and disappears. Bangs, clangs and thuds clatter through the apartment as he rummages around. Gavin shifts, trying to get comfortable in the rock hard seat. He fervently hopes they won’t find anything and they’ll have to lock him in the bathroom, which in his very vivid imagination has a window just barely big enough for him to squeeze himself through. He holds onto the daydream until McCray returns to the kitchenette with a thick coil of rope, and his shoulders droop like they’re made of lead.

A heavy sense of hopelessness settles over him as McCray slips the belt-thing off his wrists and yanks them through the slats in the chair, twining the rope around them in a figure eight pattern and cinching it between them so he can’t wriggle his hands free. He straps Gavin’s ankles to the chair legs next, then winds the rest of the rope around his chest and stomach so tightly it digs into his skin, making it hard for him to breathe. That done, McCray steps back into Gavin’s line of sight and leers at him like he’s a free gourmet buffet. The criminal’s tongue darts out and licks along his parted lips like a worm poking itself out of the dirt.

“I’ll take first watch if you want to try and get some sleep,” McCray says without taking his eyes off Gavin.

Espinoza rubs the knuckles of his free hand along his chin, then shrugs. “As long as you quit messing with the hostage and watch out for the cops.”

McCray nods so fast he looks like a dashboard bobble head on a bumpy country road and strides over to the window, planting himself next to a raggedy sofa. “I’ll stay right here the whole time,” he says, obviously trying for earnest and trustworthy. All Gavin sees is a fox trying to convince the farmer to let him guard the hen house. He stares beseechingly up at Espinoza, willing him to see through the ruse and take first watch himself.

Espinoza grunts. “You better. If I come out here and see you anywhere near him, I’ll gut you.” With that he pockets his knife and disappears down the short hallway into the single bedroom. As soon as his boss is gone, the bearded criminal licks his lips and smirks over at Gavin. An icy fist clenches Gavin’s chest. Even though he knows it won’t do any good, he wriggles his hands and yanks at his bonds, trying to find a weak spot he can exploit to free himself, but McCray obviously knew his way around a rope. All his struggling does his chafe his wrists, so with a frustrated grunt he tilts his head back and frowns up at the loops of loose wire drooping from the cracks in the mold-stained ceiling.

Great job, Gavin. No really, great job. Fabulous, even. He huffs a breath out his nose. Goddamn it. How could he let this happen to himself? Better yet, how the hell did this happen at all? There are literally millions of people in Los Angeles. The criminals had a one in several millions-chance of running into Gavin. So of course they did. He’s almost tempted to believe in God, because the series of implausible coincidences that created this situation smacks of divine intervention, and not the good kind. Plus, if God were real, Gavin could hate him and rant and rail at him and make himself feel better.

One thing’s for sure. When he gets out of here alive — because damn it, he is getting out of here alive — he’s making Fritz give him self-defense lessons.

Lights flash outside, and a tiny golden bubble of hope wells in his chest when he recognizes the red, yellow, and blue lights of a police cruiser. McCray stiffens and ducks to the side of the window, flattening himself against the grimy wall. Gavin strains against the ropes to see outside, but he’s too far away and the glass is too filthy for him to make anything out. Two car doors creak open and slam shut, and something flutters in Gavin’s stomach. They got out! Maybe they’ll see the car, recognize it from the APB that’s surely been issued by now, and comb the area for signs of the suspects. His pulse jacks up as muffled voices reach his ears. If he can hear them, surely they could hear him too. Almost giddy with a new surge of adrenaline, he takes a deep breath as quietly as he can.

“HE—”McCray is suddenly beside him, shoving something scratchy down his throat and clamping a hand over his mouth. Gavin gags and jerks his head around to dislodge it, but the criminal’s grip is sturdy. With a growl he grabs a handful of Gavin’s hair and wrenches his head back, holding him still. How is Espinoza not hearing this? He must be deaf or dead to the world.

“Shut up or I swear I’ll snap your neck,” McCray hisses into his ear.

White-hot fury surges through Gavin. His rescuers are right there, right outside, so close. With a muffled snarl he strains against the ropes even as they gouge into him and jerks his hands against the bindings and butts his head back at McCray’s face, earning a sharp yowl, but the man refuses to let go, and the ropes refuse to unravel.

Then the two doors slam shut again and the lights drift off down the street, leaving darkness in their wake.

Gavin’s heart stops and he stares unseeingly at the window. No. No, no, no. They left without even investigating the building, the most obvious place he could be. They could have saved him, could have ended this all now, but they left. They left.

Gavin’s fury abandons him as quickly as it came and he slumps in the chair with a choked sob. His throat burns and with another sob he squeezes his eyes shut against his moldy dump of a prison, not wanting to look at it, not wanting to be here, wishing he was home with Fritz. Hot tears stream down his face, plopping onto his lenses as he breaks down and cries, chest heaving.

He’s so caught up in his own misery he doesn’t register that McCray has moved until rough fingers brush away his tears. Flinching, he jerks his head up to find the criminal squatting in front of him, one hand on Gavin’s knee, the other caressing his face in a mockery of tenderness. “You’re pretty when you cry,” McCray murmurs, running the pad of his thumb along Gavin’s cheek. The hand on Gavin’s knee travels up his thigh and squeezes his hip. Gavin breaks out in a cold sweat and jiggles his leg to shake off the criminal’s grip, but it only encourages him to squeeze again, harder, his thumb sliding between Gavin’s legs. Oh god no. No. No, this can’t be happening. He can’t let this happen, not after everything else. Unable to hold back a whimper as the criminal gropes him, he twists his face out of the man’s grasp and tries in vain to shrink away from the unwanted touches.

“Ah, ah, ah,” McCray says, grabbing Gavin’s chin and forcing Gavin to look at him. “Just relax. Let it happen. You know you want it, been asking for it all day.”

Gavin moans and shakes his head as best as he can. Tears stream down his now burning cheeks as his body hardens against his will. “See? You like this,” the criminal breathes, his eyes blown black with lust. He lets go of Gavin’s chin and slowly strokes him from his neck to his waist, pausing to fondle a nipple beneath his blue-and-white striped Charvet shirt. He presses so close to Gavin that Gavin can feel the man’s hot, rancid breath on his neck.

Breath hitching, Gavin shakes his head again and yells “No! Stop!” as best he can around whatever’s in his mouth. McCray ignores him in favor of leaning in and licking along his collar bone. Gavin shudders as bile burns at the back of his throat, but he swallows it down, has to, unless he wants to choke to death on his own vomit. It’s not at all the way he wants to go, but the way things are going now, it’s looking like a better and better alternative by the second.

He squeezes his eyes shut and bites back another whimper as the man tugs down the zipper to his pants and slips his hand into Gavin’s boxers, coaxing him to further hardness. Another stream of tears cascades down his face. Oh god, he’ll never be able to look Fritz in the eye again after this. If he even gets to look at Fritz ever again. His stomach roils and he sobs, longing to see Fritz, willing him to burst into the room and save him from this. He’ll make it up to Fritz somehow, but if Fritz ends up leaving, he won’t blame him. What kind of freak gets hard when he’s being molested? Even so the idea of being alone depresses him and he dissolves into tears, breath hitching around pained whimpers.

“Shh,” McCray says, pressing closer so their bodies are nearly flush. “Be quiet. You like this. Just be quiet and take it.” Fisting a hand in Gavin’s hair, he tilts Gavin’s head back and bites along his neck. No. That’s what Fritz does. Only Fritz can do that. Gavin struggles to get away, his body clenching with dry heaves.

The criminal’s face tightens and he pulls away, frowning down at Gavin. “Stop doing that,” he says, yanking Gavin’s hair when he doesn’t stop, when he can’t make himself stop retching in fear and disgust. Mouth twisting into a snarl, McCray pulls back and backhands Gavin across the face. He gasps, cheek stinging. Then McCray grabs his face again, hand clenched around his jaw, forcing him to look up at the criminal through watery eyes and splotchy, tear-stained glasses.

“I said stop it,” McCray hisses, “or I’ll —”

The front door flies off its hinges as armed cops swarm into the room.

“Police!”

“Get down on the ground!”

“Drop your weapon!”

“Put your hands over your head!”

Despite the thing gagging him, Gavin’s mouth falls open and he gasps as Fritz barges in on the heels of a uniformed officer, gun drawn and trained at McCray’s back. Their eyes lock for a second, and times seems to slow as Fritz stares at him, eyes widening a fraction. Then Fritz’s entire face hardens and those soft brown eyes narrow to flinty slits. Gavin averts his gaze, hot shame washing over him and soaking him to his core.

“Step away from the hostage,” Fritz barks as a cluster of cops breaks off from the group. Moving in formation down the hallway, they rush into the bedroom, shouting the same orders.

In a heartbeat McCray scrambles around the chair and crouches behind Gavin, pulling his knife back out and slotting it against Gavin’s throat. “I’ll kill him. Won’t think twice,” he says, deliberately nicking Gavin’s neck so the cops know he means business.

Gavin flinches as his skin parts beneath the blade, but at this point his system’s so flooded with adrenaline and he’s so overcome with humiliation he barely feels the pain. Without the criminal blocking the way he’s entirely exposed to Fritz, and surely Fritz must notice the shameful hardness tenting his boxers. He curls into himself as much as he can, but the criminal pulls him back up, forcing his body to unfold.

“Get away from him. Now,” Fritz says, voice like granite.

Shouts erupt in the background followed by a series of thuds. More shouting. Then the group of uniformed cops appears in the hallway, triumphantly dragging out a roughed up Espinoza in handcuffs. Fritz shakes his head and gestures with a hand and they pause, eyeing the situation in the front room.

Behind Gavin McCray gives a sharp, hysterical laugh, breath huffing along Gavin’s skin and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t? You can’t shoot me or you’ll hit him too. So do both of us a favor and back the fuck up.”

Fritz’s grip on his gun is firm and his aim is unwavering. “I’ll tell you one more time, McCray. Drop the knife and let Gavin go.”

For a second that seems to stretch into eternity, nothing happens. Then everything happens at once.

Bellowing incoherently, McCray jerks Gavin’s head back and slides the knife across his throat. Gunfire erupts from the left and the knife tumbles from the criminal’s hand before it slices more than half an inch into Gavin, clattering onto the stained linoleum. Seconds later a heavy thud echoes its landing and pained wails fill the apartment.

“You shot me,” McCray shrieks. At Fritz’s signal two uniformed cops converge on him and, based on the scraping and grunting, haul him to his feet. “Police brutality,” he adds as the officers drag him into the center of the room and force his hands behind his back so they can cuff him. Blood seeps from his left shoulder, staining his shirt. Seeing his tormentor in handcuffs and obvious agony makes Gavin go limp with relief. It’s over. It’s finally over. Thank god.

No, not god.

Thank Fritz.

As the uniformed cops handle the suspects, Fritz holsters his weapon and rushes to Gavin. Kneeling in front of him, he tugs the gag out of his mouth and tosses it carelessly onto the floor next to the knife. “My god, Gavin. Are you okay? Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Gavin mumbles something vaguely affirmative and drops his chin to his chest, unable to look Fritz in the eye. If he didn’t notice Gavin’s shameful erection before he’s bound to notice it now. His eyes water and burn, but he blinks back the tears even as his chin trembles and his breath stutters like he’s going to start crying again at any second. But he can’t cry in front of Fritz. Won’t. He’s already seen Gavin helpless; he can’t let Fritz see him weak too.

Fritz must sense his distress and runs his hands soothingly down Gavin’s shoulders while making soft, reassuring noises. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe now, okay? You’re safe.” Still rubbing calming circles into Gavin’s shoulders and back, Fritz turns toward the cops crowding the front room. “I need one of you guys to come over here and help me untie him.” One of them peels away from the group and instantly starts tugging at the ropes securing Gavin’s wrists.

It’s all a bit too much for him to take in, and he can’t choke back the sob that punches out his throat. “Fritz. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, you have to believe me, I didn’t want —”

Fritz presses a finger to his lip, shushing him. “It’s okay.”

But it’s not okay. He has to tell Fritz, make him understand that Gavin didn’t want it, didn’t want to be touched like that. Fritz has to understand. “He touched me,” Gavin blurts out as the officer untying him finishes unbinding his hands and moves on to the ropes twining around his chest and stomach. The second his hands are free, Gavin zips up his pants with fumbling fingers and folds his hands over his lap. “He touched me and…he made me…” But he can’t finish, can’t admit it aloud. Heat flushes his face and he hangs his head again, biting his trembling bottom lip.

Fritz gently tilts his chin up, brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean he touched you? What did he make you do?”

Gavin whimpers, sounding pathetic even to his own ears, and looks pointedly down at his groin, which is finally, mercifully, going soft. Fritz follows his gaze, and he knows when Fritz understands when his hands clamp down on Gavin’s shoulders and his eyes harden again into the steely gaze of a federal agent. Gavin swallows thickly, but before he can explain himself, Fritz pushes up and spins on his heel toward the front room, leaving Gavin alone in the kitchenette with the uniformed officer.

Squeezing his eyes shut as a tear slides down his cheek, Gavin presses a fist to his lips to hold back a sob and wraps his other arm around himself. Of course Fritz is angry; he has every right to be. Who gets hard when they’re being molested? He’s sick. Disgusting. Fritz is better off —

A meaty thud and sharp cry ring out from the front room. Gavin’s eyes pop open in time to see McCray hit the floor, blood streaming from his obviously broken nose. He blinks, not entirely sure what he’s seeing until several officers converge on Fritz and haul him away from the criminal. Their voices admonish him for striking a handcuffed prisoner while their faces give away the fact that they don’t give a shit. To them, the sleazeball got what he so richly deserved.

Oh.

Well. Looks like Gavin has nothing to worry about after all. The pressure in his chest eases and he takes a deep breath, slumping back in the chair.

“Police brutality,” McCray shouts again to a room full of deaf ears as two cops lug him back to his feet. One of them yanks the ratty curtain off the wall and half-heartedly uses it to staunch the blood flowing down his face into his beard.

Fritz shakes the officers off and strides back to the kitchenette just as the cop finishes untying Gavin. Before Gavin even has a chance to thank the man, Fritz pulls Gavin up into a tight embrace that squeezes most of the air out of his lungs and crushes his side where Espinoza kicked him, making him suck his teeth in pain. “Don’t you ever do anything like that to me ever again,” Fritz says, voice muffled against Gavin’s hair. “I don’t know whether to slap you silly or, or, or kiss you senseless.”

“You could do both,” Gavin manages to squeak out.

Fritz just laughs and does neither, squeezing him harder like he’s afraid Gavin is going to vanish if he lets go. Gavin can’t hide the hiss of pain this time, prompting Fritz to ease up on the embrace and step back, though his hands still grip Gavin’s upper arms like vises. “You’re hurt,” he says, giving Gavin a critical once-over.

Gavin shrugs a shoulder. “It’s nothing.” Honestly, he can’t be bothered to care now that Fritz is here. Whatever’s wrong will heal eventually.

Fritz gives him an ‘I don’t believe you’ look. “It’s obviously not nothing. What happened?”

Gavin shrugs again, but even if he wanted to he can’t make himself lie to Fritz, either directly or by omission. “They kicked me, but I’ll be fine.”

“Because you’re going to the hospital.”

Gavin grimaces. He hates hospitals. Hates the hours of anxious waiting and the antiseptic smell and the endless beeping and booping of machines and, worse of all, the needles. Shots, IVs, those evil things they collect blood samples with, all of them. Just no. Shuddering at the thought, he presses close to Fritz and wraps his arms around him half as a distraction tactic and half as an honest need for comfort after the hellacious day he’s had. “I’ll be fine,” he says again, nuzzling a kiss into Fritz’s neck.

Fritz huffs, but wraps his arms very carefully around Gavin. “Sure. After you go to the hospital.”

Gavin grunts. So much for distraction tactics. He pulls back and looks his beautiful, beloved boyfriend dead in the eye so he knows Gavin is beyond serious about this. “Fritz. I am not going to the hospital.”

Fritz meets his gaze head on. “Yes, you are.”

Gavin glares at Fritz.

Fritz glares at Gavin.

Gavin goes to the hospital.

He ends up staying overnight and most of the next day. After making him suffer through a battery of tests (and the insertion of an IV, because apparently he’s dehydrated and why he can’t just drink water until he’s re-hydrated he’ll never know), the doctors are finally satisfied that he’s not bleeding internally and all his internal organs are fine. Nevertheless, they send him home with strict orders to take the rest of the week off to ‘recuperate,’ because doctors hate lawyers and are probably rubbing their hands in glee at the idea of taking one out of commission. Never mind the fact that Gavin would be the one defending them if they found themselves on the wrong side of a medical malpractice suit.

Ingrates.

He huffs and puffs and throws a fit, but one look from Fritz and he caves, agreeing to stay home until next Monday even though it’s only Wednesday. Shit. Just shit. Gavin can feel the crazy creeping up on him now.

It’s late in the day by the time they let him go. Crimson throbs at the horizon and fades upward to a delicate pink. Wispy white clouds brush across the pale face of the moon, just a ghostly crescent in the early evening sky. Gavin scowls up at it, still too pissed off at the world to appreciate the natural beauty of a gorgeous sunset.

“I can walk, you know,” he grouses as Fritz pushes his wheelchair through the lobby and out to the patient drop-off area where Fritz’s blue Toyota is idling by the curb.

“Standard discharge procedure.” Fritz sounds like he’s about to start whistling a jaunty tune. He’s obviously enjoying this way too much. Gavin rolls his eyes and picks at the large bandage covering the cut on his neck where McCray tried to slit his throat. It itches horribly, but Fritz swats his hand away before he can get any relief.

“Leave that alone.”

“Yes, mother,” Gavin snarks as Fritz parks him next to the car and opens the passenger door for him. He manages to stand up on his own before Fritz wraps an arm around him and guides him into the seat like he’s a newborn foal taking his first steps in the world. He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, mindful of the tender bruise purpling his side. “I swear to god, Fritz, knock it off. I’m not going to break.” Fritz just smiles down at him, pressing a kiss to his temple before shutting the door and wheeling the chair back to the hospital lobby. The sunset paints his back in soft pastels as the doors swish open to let him in.

Gavin sighs and leans back in the seat. All sniping aside, he’s nothing but grateful to Fritz, and not just for saving his stubborn ass. Instead of rightfully claiming the bust as his own, he graciously let one of the other agents take credit (and the accompanying pile of paperwork) so he could personally escort Gavin to the nearest hospital. Fritz was probably just making sure that Gavin actually went to the hospital and stayed there long enough for treatment, but still, Gavin appreciates it. Especially since he got to squeeze Fritz’s hand to a pulp when the nurse inserted the IV and had someone to talk to during the long, boring stretches of downtime between tests and results.

The doors slide open as Fritz comes back outside, breaking into a light jog as soon as his shoes hit the concrete. The fiery sky burnishes his face a warm bronze, like he’s glowing with an inner light. Smiling to himself, Gavin steeples his hands together and taps his fingers against his lips. Fritz truly is the kindest, most patient man on the planet. And so very, very gorgeous. It’s enough to leave Gavin feeling overwhelmed, but in a pleasant sort of way, like the warm buzz of a good wine. As Fritz slams his door shut and shifts the car into drive, drifting out of the parking lot at a safe and responsible ten miles an hour, Gavin is struck by an aching need to show Fritz how grateful he truly is.

He can think of a few ways.

His lips quirk into a smirk as a delicious little plan starts forming in his mind.

-.-.-.-.-

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