DISCLAIMER: I own nothing
Blood and Flames
By Joodiff, May 2011.
It's a coldly graphic one, the scene playing itself out behind her closed eyes. A dark, abandoned building, a single flickering fluorescent light. She can feel the chill of the night air as keenly as she had just moments before the memory was cast in blood and fire. The gunshots are deafeningly loud. One, two, three. The first taking Boyd in the right shoulder, twisting him like a puppet, the second just grazing his temple before ringing loudly against metal somewhere beyond him and ricocheting away into the dark; the final shot tearing into his leg, flooring him. Noise. Tyres screeching. Sirens. Shouting. More gunshots. The bitter cold of the night, the searing heat of the flames. Blood that looks black in the eerie mix of fire and fluorescence. Sweat and soot streaking his face as he starts to shudder uncontrollably.
"Frankie…?" Grace's voice, sounding a long, long way away.
Frankie Wharton opens her eyes. The hospital corridor is white, clean and brightly lit, and the sight of it temporarily chases away the blood and flames.
Grace's voice is laced with concern, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Frankie says mechanically, not because it is true, but because it is always the answer expected. Further down the corridor, Spencer is talking to a tall man wearing green surgical scrubs. Spencer's head is lowered slightly, his expression tight, earnest.
"How long has it been now?" Mel asks, glancing up at Grace.
The older woman glances at her watch, "Just over an hour."
"Why aren't they telling us anything?"
"It's too soon," Grace says, but she doesn't sound as if she believes her own words.
Spencer nods at the man he has been speaking to and walks back towards them. His expression is closed, unreadable.
Speaking for all three of them, Grace says, "Spence…?"
"They're still trying to stabilise him," he tells them. His tone is quiet, controlled. Frighteningly so. "Archer's dead. They tried to keep the bastard alive, but they couldn't."
Frankie has no words. What can she possibly say? That she believes that this is all her fault? That all she can see is Boyd reeling under the impact of the first bullet, a look of total, blank shock on his face? That the fear inside her is so strong it feels as if her chest is being slowly and remorselessly crushed? There is nothing she can say, not to her colleagues, not to anyone. So she stares at the floor and tries to convince herself that she is dreaming, that in a moment she will wake up to find the summer sun streaming in through her bedroom window.
Grace starts to say something, but she is interrupted by a sudden cacophony of sound and movement at the end of the corridor.
Frankie's head snaps up in the same moment as Spencer says, "Fuck…"
She knows even before she sees them that it's the crash team running towards the double doors behind which –
Mel's on her feet, her face suddenly drained of all colour; she's looking wildly at Grace, as if for answers, and she's saying, "Christ, no…"
The world is spinning, and Frankie has to fight hard against the primeval instinct to vomit. Grace is suddenly there, taking hold of her arm, and the contact is enough to pull her back from the precipice, to ground her. The urge to start screaming lessens, but she can still feel the relentless surges of adrenaline racing through her. In an abstract, useless sort of way, she realises she is in shock and that all her reactions are perfectly normal, but the knowledge doesn't help at all.
"What's happening?" Mel demands, her tone raw with panic.
They know what's happening. All of them. Of course they do.
-oOo-
Mel – Amelia Silver – is the pretty one. The one with the blonde hair and the blue eyes, and the innocently bewitching smile. Mel is the one the men turn their heads for. Frankie isn't jealous – it's just the way things are. And Grace, Grace is the elegant one, the one who exudes a fascinating mix of experienced calm and quiet vulnerability. Grace is the one men hold doors open for. And Frankie isn't jealous of that, either. Frankie is the one in scruffy jeans, the one who never seems to find much time to bother with things like hairspray and make-up. Frankie is the one men laugh with, the one they tend to treat as one of the lads. And Frankie's okay with that – she was never a particularly girly girl, even when she was a little child.
Frankie's the one who never once thought there was more to the easy flirting than idle office banter. Frankie's the one who just assumed Peter Boyd flirted so unsubtly with her simply because it amused him to pick on the most unlikely target. And Frankie's the one whose world unexpectedly got turned upside down on a warm, sunny evening by the Thames when a quick drink, friendly after work became something else altogether. And almost more than that first urgent, demanding kiss, she remembers how vastly entertained he was by her total surprise that he was serious, that he was genuinely, powerfully attracted to her.
Mel is the pretty one and Grace is the elegant one, but it's Frankie who owns the heart of the man. The great, good heart that is no longer beating. And that's something that she simply cannot comprehend.
-oOo-
"He's stable," the doctor says, but his tone and expression are both grim. "However, he's still in a critical condition. I'm sorry."
Grace says, "Is there a chance he could go into arrest again?"
"Well, that's highly unlikely, I would say. The cardiac arrest was caused purely by hypovolemia – massive blood loss. All our tests indicate there's nothing physiologically wrong with his heart, no underlying problem."
"Can we see him?" Mel asks.
The doctor shakes his head, "I'm afraid not. He's being moved to the critical care unit overnight, pending surgery."
"Surgery?" Grace says.
"We need to operate on his shoulder. Looking at the x-rays, he's been extremely lucky to avoid any skeletal injury, but there's some tidying up to be done. While we're there we may decide to go ahead and remove the bullet, depending on what we find. The leg wound's not as bad – the bullet punched straight through the muscle. Clear exit wound. No bone damage there, either. He's nowhere near out of the woods, but, as I said, so far he's been very, very lucky."
"Yeah, I don't think he's going to see it quite that way," Spencer says. "Thanks, Doctor."
The doctor nods and walks away, leaving the three of them to evaluate his words.
Frankie moves without thinking, "I'm going to see him."
Spencer moves too, quickly blocking her path, "Come on, Frankie, you heard what the man said."
"Get out of my way, Spence," she snaps, all the raw emotion of the evening starting to come to a head.
He doesn't move, just says, "Take it easy, Frankie…"
And she explodes, railing at him, "Fuck off, Spencer… Just fuck off…"
"Hey," he shouts back at her, "We're all going through this… Don't take it out on me…"
Grace, ever the peacemaker, puts a hand on his arm, "Spence…"
Frankie wheels away from them all, striding down the corridor in tears, with no idea where she's going or what she's going to do when she gets there.
-oOo-
She can picture Boyd running towards her, shouting her name as the flames really start to take hold, and she knows that was the moment when he allowed himself to be utterly compromised. He came for her alone, far ahead of the others, driven by far more than duty, responsibility or comradeship. He came through the flames for her as a lover, not as a colleague, and now he is paying for his impulsiveness. And Frankie hates herself for it.
They have been doing so well, until now; both of them acutely aware of the boundaries that have to be strictly maintained during working hours. He has allowed her no quarter, and she has done him no favours, and they have learned to respect each other even more because of it. Stark in her mind, Frankie can see the look on his face – fear turning to relief as he finally spots her, and relief becoming shock as Archer's first bullet takes him.
"Frankie?"
It is Grace, of course, who has come to find her. Grace who walks up to her and gently takes her arm, leads her to a more private corner and puts motherly arms around her. It is Grace who whispers gentle reassurances into her ear while Frankie finally allows herself to sob without restraint.
"Oh, Frankie," Grace says, a tiny crack in her voice. "That's right, don't be afraid to cry – let it all out."
Frankie despises herself for her weakness. The things she has seen in the course of her career have made her tougher than most, and in any case, she is not naturally a woman who easily goes to pieces. But this is different. This is something far outside her experience. It's a hard fight, but in the end she manages to assert some control, enough to pull back from Grace and apologise with a husky, "I'm sorry…"
"Don't be sorry," Grace says quietly. Her expression is one of concern, but there's also something very wise there, something that understands completely. She seems to decide to take the initiative, says gently, "Frankie, none of us can help who we fall in love with."
Frankie is startled. She stares at the older woman for a second, finally manages, "You know about…?"
"I guessed," Grace admits. In explanation, she offers, "I'm a psychologist; I study people. And I've known Boyd a long, long time. Since he was an ambitious young DS, in fact."
Frankie looks at the floor. She still hopes that this is all a bad dream, but she knows it's not. She says, "It's my fault, Grace. I went back to the scene without authorisation and without backup, knowing Archer could be there."
"Frankie – "
"It's my fault," she says stubbornly, and her expression is fierce. "If he dies – "
"He's not going to die," Grace says firmly. "Boyd's as tough as they come. He'll be back on his feet and making everyone's life hell before you know it."
-oOo-
None of them really know what to do. They don't want to leave, but they have been repeatedly told there is no point in them staying. The doctors will only say that Boyd's condition is critical, but stable. None of them are his next of kin, so they remain confined to a limbo of corridors and waiting areas as the hospital traffic ebbs and flows around them. Frankie sits in near-silence. Mel talks a lot. Spencer fetches endless cups of tea and coffee. Grace… well, Grace just does what she does best – she supports everyone else. They hang around outside the critical care unit, ignoring the glares of the staff and recognising the hollow, dead-eyed look of others who also wait in limbo for their friends or relatives.
It's past two in the morning. Spencer and Mel are standing together talking softly, while Grace and Frankie sit in silence on the hard chairs, each lost in their own thoughts. Frankie finds herself asking, "What was he like?"
Grace looks at her, "Sorry?"
"Boyd. You said you knew him right back when he was a DS…?"
"I didn't know him very well," Grace admits. "But, yes. Our paths crossed a few times."
"So, what was he like?"
Grace leans back in her chair, manages a wan smile, "Good-looking. Full of himself. Very fiery. Not afraid of anything or anyone. Just the way you'd expect, I suppose. Didn't have any time for office politics or the party line, didn't play well with others. Very dedicated, very diligent, but a bit like a like a bull in a china shop. He had a lot of humanity and a lot of integrity, though. It was never just a job to him. To be honest, he hasn't changed very much."
Frankie just nods. She doesn't really know how she feels any more. She is drained. Empty. Nothing feels real. She wants to be at home, safe in her little flat. She wants to be lying in her bed, warm and comfortable, securely nestled against Boyd's broad-shouldered, long-limbed body, feeling his warmth, his strength. She wants to open her eyes and realise she has been having a terrible nightmare. She wants to watch him as he sleeps peacefully next to her. This is how this terrible night should be.
"Frankie," Grace says quietly. "I'm going to tell Mel and Spence to get out of here. They can't spend the entire night here and go straight into work in the morning."
"Okay," Frankie says, but she doesn't really care one way or the other.
-oOo-
Cont.