AN: One of many neglected fics in my sentbox. Trying to get all out of the way so I can quit with relatively few regrets. This is one of two or three that I actually like.
Beta'ed, and vastly improved, by the fabulous Allthinky.
The walls of the low-ceilinged police station are gray, the ceiling fan a constant whirr-creak, whirr-creak in the background. Despite the air, as Scotty stands before the Chief of Police, he's unable to help sweating. "Sir, the American Embassy insists on recovering the prisoner. He is an American subject and as such, we will deal with him."
The police chief leans back at his desk, adjusting the braid on his cuffs. "He is a criminal."
"The fact," the Embassy envoy with Scotty cuts in smoothly, "that he was accused by a most important society lady of stealing her brooch does not make him a criminal."
"The brooch was reported stolen. Our investigation process will reveal whether or not he is the thief."
Scotty leans forward, very slightly. "Your investigations wouldn't include any kind of five-fingered invitation to confess, now would they?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"An invitation to confess prompted by, say, a closed fist?"
The man's upturned face takes on a flat stare. "Mr…"
"Scott."
"…Mr. Scott, we are questioning the suspect according to standard procedure…"
"Standard procedure in this country, or in the USA?"
"What are you implying, Mr. Scott?"
Scotty finds he's planted his hands on the desk. Ignoring the silent nudges from the envoy, he speaks, unable to keep the dangerous tone form his voice. "I'm sure you're aware that any kind of violence against an American citizen is considered an act of aggression against the United States of America, and, if we take it to a higher level, could be construed as an act of war."
About halfway through his monologue, Walter the Embassy envoy has stopped tugging at Scotty's sleeve and is now nodding vigorously. "Is the honor of having made an arrest enough to outweigh the blot on your record of causing a diplomatic incident?"
"Yeah," Scotty adds. "What's an accusation from some dizzy dame, no matter who her husband is, compared to maybe losing the millions in aid the USA gives your country? Do you want to be responsible for that? The President's gonna remember your name forever, you can count on it."
The officer swallows and sits back. "There may be a precedent here for releasing him into your custody…"
The envoy beams, which is good, because Scotty's teeth are clenched so hard he's not sure he can keep talking. "A wise, wise decision, Sir!"
"Please," says the police chief, "have a seat. We will bring the prisoner, and meanwhile I shall have the office-boy bring you tea."
Scotty nods tightly. Refusing is too much effort. Soon enough the cup is before him; he watches the swirls of vapor rising slowly from the hot liquid, allowing himself the luxury of letting the US Envoy to Backwater sign the required papers and deal with the red tape, trying not to think of anything at all. Certainly not what's been happening to Kelly in this grey, squat building for sixteen hours until he managed to roust anyone out of the Embassy to deal with the…
There's a scuffle behind him, and he bolts up from his seat, regardless of the envoy's hand on his arm.
Two policemen are dragging a slumped figure by the arms, hands cuffed behind his back. The head dangles limply towards the floor; all that's visible is the hair, tangled and matted with blood. The bloodstained shirt is in tatters, shredded like the pants.
Scotty remains rooted to the spot, like granite. "Cuffs," he grates out.
One of the guards supports the limp man while the other fumbles behind his back. The cuffs are undone, arms falling forward, revealing torn sleeves and bruised and swollen hands, and still Scotty stands immobile, watching the unconscious man held up by the two policemen.
"You can take him now, gentlemen," says the Chief of Police, rising. Scotty shakes his hand, resisting a judo flip, resisting a precise slam to the desk that would break the man's teeth half off, exposing the nerves—
"Scotty," says Envoy Walter Whatsisname, who's done some good work, only Scotty's numb, his control still firmly in place, still on autopilot. He moves like an automaton to where Walter is already trying to take Kelly from the policemen, but fumbling.
Scotty shoulders the man aside and slides an arm around Kelly without looking at him, gripping one limp arm and pulling it up around his, Scotty's, neck. Kelly's completely unconscious, unable to move at all of his own volition, but Scotty refuses to carry him like a child in front of these despicable excuses for policemen. He takes a few steps towards the door, but Kelly's feet are dragging, so he hoists him as high as he can, tightening his arm around Kelly's waist.
Kelly mutters in his unconsciousness, and tries to twist away.
Oh, damn. Damaged ribs, and he's aggravated them. Throwing dignity to the four winds, Scotty loosens his tight grip around Kelly and lifts him gently, one arm around his back, the other under his knees. The man lets out a relieved breath as the pressure on his torso eases, and slumps into his arms.
He's never going to see them again, he thinks of the policemen directing curious stares at them as they go down the stairs. He's never going to see them again, and dignity can just go fly a kite, in the face of whatever the hell's been done to Kelly. His gut churns as he takes his first good look at Kelly's face, swollen and purple, overlapping sets of finger-marks outlined clearly on his cheek and jaw… He ought to be glad that they haven't gone for Kelly's eyes, he ought to be glad that they seem to have been whipping on Kelly's face with open hands rather than closed fists, but at the sight of the hand-shaped bruises on Kelly's face, he finds that his professionalism seems to have deserted him.
They arrive at the Embassy car, and Scotty doesn't care what it looks like, he crowds into the back seat with Kelly, arranging his legs to stretch out on the seat, supporting his upper body with his own. Not like Kelly hasn't fallen asleep against him in a car a hundred times… "Not so much fun this time, right, Hobey?"
There's no response, not even a flicker of the closed eyes. Kelly's deep unconsciousness worries Scotty; the man has withstood horrendous torture before, but sometimes amateur pounding can be more lethal than professional cruelty. He probes the blood-matted hair carefully; lumps and small cuts, but nothing, thank God, that seems too serious.
The envoy's saying something. "…hospital, Agent Scott, because then how will we explain his injuries?"
Scotty grits his teeth. The whole damn country is complicit in covering up for police brutality, and right now he would very much not mind a military assault on the backwater state, but all he really wants to do is get the hell out and take his partner with him. "Tell 'em he got mugged. If they don't believe it, I'll make 'em believe it," he grates out. "And step on it, wouldya?"
There must be something in his voice, because the man raps out, "Yessir," and steps harder on the gas.
Cautiously, Scotty slips a finger into Kelly's mouth, runs it along his teeth; good, nothing cracked or dislodged. The tongue seems normal size too, not bitten. He allows himself a small sigh of relief as he withdraws his hand, wiping it on Kelly's clothing and continuing his examination. "What did you say to them, huh, Clyde?" he murmurs, unbuttoning the tattered shirt. "I told you never to knock the national soccer team, man I can't take you anyplace…"
Kelly murmurs and turns to one side, as though Scotty's hold is paining him. Scotty shifts, then feels the blood drain from his own face as the shirt falls aside to reveal the back of Kelly's neck. It's hugely discolored and swollen like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, he remembers the brief about how one of these people's favorite tortures is to slam their open palms against the nerve bundle on a man's nape repeatedly, with extreme force.
Oh, man…
Scotty turns Kel carefully to one side to relieve any pressure on the nape of his neck, staring, appalled, at the shiny, puffy lump, crisscrossed with blisters left by the policemen's fingers. He raises one hand to gingerly touch the beaten area, but his hand stops in mid-gesture as he feels the sheer heat radiating from it. Stopping in his tracks, he grits his teeth, and has to close his eyes for a minute against the rage that threatens to destroy his control. Slowly, he lowers his hand, not daring to touch the abused flesh; the only way he'll touch that blazing skin is with an ice pack, when they get to hospital – it must be so sore, Scotty knows how sensitive the nerves are in that area – to ease the burn and bring the swelling down. He swallows hard. Nothing is worth this, not a brooch with a microfilm in it, not national security, not… But he knows that Kelly would say different if he were awake.
"How much further to the hospital?" he snaps.
"Another five minutes," says the envoy, who doesn't deserve to be snapped at, but that's the way the ol' cookie crumbles. Scotty continues his examination, lifting the shirt off the man slumped half-against him. He breathes in as he sees the bootprints on the pale back and chest, clearly etched in black and blue. These aren't kicks – they were stomping on him. To make him confess… He closes his eyes, feeling his blood boil.
He lightly runs his fingers over Kelly's ribs, trying gently to ascertain if they're broken. But Kelly shudders violently, thrashing in Scotty's arms. "Hey, hey," Scotty says, bending low, whispering in his partner's ear. "Hey, man, it's over. It's over. Not a guest of the state anymore, just gotta acclimatize yourself to the inferior accommodations…"
Kelly's face turns up to look blankly into Scotty's, eyes wide and glazed with pain and shock. He opens his mouth to speak, but words are clearly beyond him. He shudders again and falls back against Scotty's shoulder, eyes closing.
There are moments when Scotty would gladly, gladly trade places with Kelly, flesh and blood and bones and all, if it would mean he can be spared having to watch him suffer, and this is one of them. Although, he admits as he cards his fingers through Kelly's blood-matted hair and murmurs meaningless encouragement, although he wouldn't be spared these miserable, unhappy moments for all the tea in China: if Kelly has to be injured, in this crummy, lousy occupation of theirs, there is no-one he would entrust him to other than himself, nobody else he can really count on to take care of his nutty partner and give him what he needs. He lowers his face to Kelly's, murmuring comfortingly to him, unsure whether the man can even hear him, but unable to refrain from offering what he can. "…Be all right. Gonna be sinkin' baskets again in no time," he murmurs. "Right, Wilt? Mr. Chamberlain? Hmm?"
The car jolts to a stop: they're outside the hospital's emergency entrance, a dusty, deserted doorway. A half-burnt-out neon fixture flickers on and off, struggling valiantly to give off some kind of light.
Kelly struggles again, trying to come to consciousness, trying so hard, Scotty can tell, and he feels a pang as he looks at Kelly, always in there trying. "How's 'bout you let me take care of this one, Duke?" he asks softly, angling himself out of the car door and easing Kel onto the tarmac with a hand under each armpit.
There's no stretcher, no nothing, and that pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the night. Scotty has to fight uncaring receptionists and nonchalant nurses to get Kelly admitted, fight technicians drinking tepid tea and watching soccer on TV to get him X-rayed, finally snatching the films out of the assistant's hands even as he's indolently telling Scotty to "wait till tomorrow morning for the expert to come and write up the report"; miraculously, the rough treatment only caused two cracked ribs, and the spine is intact, nothing dislocated.
He yells at them for an ice pack until he gets one, and gets Kelly out of the miserable excuse for a hospital, settling him against his chest in the back seat, holding the pack against the swelling, feeling the burn in his own chest ease as Kelly relaxes, slumping against him as his pain subsides.
"In the drawer…" Kelly murmurs.
"Hm?"
"The brooch," he mutters. "Didn't tell 'em nuthin'…"
"I know that, man. Maybe you shoulda."
"The brooch…"
"It's safe. It's safe. Will you forget that stupid brooch and take care of yourself?"
Kelly half-smiles, raising a hand to fumblingly grip Scotty's sleeve. "Why? I got you… to do it for me."
Scotty chokes back the tenderness that threatens to overwhelm him. "No kind of answer, man. What'll you do when I'm not around?" he retorts, unable to keep the fear from his voice.
"Who cares?"
Scotty falls silent, shocked. The rest of the drive is completed in silence.
Once they're at the hotel, Scotty eases Kelly out of the car, still holding the ice pack against the back of his neck. His partner is just able to stand, half-conscious, on very shaky pins. Standing very close in case Kelly falters, Scotty bends, leans in the window. "You did good tonight, Walter," he says to the Embassy envoy. "We mighta been a pain in the neck. You caught us on a real bad day."
"It's fine, Agent Scott." The envoy smiles gently. "You just make sure Agent Robinson's all right."
"Don't worry about that," says Scotty. "I will."
As he shepherds him to the elevator, he thinks about his partner's disturbing words. Whatever that means, he'll hash it out with Kel when he's on his feet. It's not that he doesn't want to stay by Kelly's side forever, but the notion that he might crash and burn when Scotty's not there…
He shakes his head. This is no time to think about such things. Now he has to tape Kel's ribs, ice his nape till the swelling's down, and get him back on his feet. And then he'll put him right back in the hospital for saying something he doesn't mean.
Scotty has to believe Kel doesn't mean it. There's nothing else to believe.