Chapter 5

So much blood.

It soaked the discarded gauze pads, stained his clothing, dried in rusty streaks under his fingernails and in the creases of his palms. The small, airless cellar reeked with the rich, coppery smell. Chris swallowed hard when his stomach responded with a slow roll. He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth until the nausea passed.

Vin was out again; asleep, unconscious--Chris supposed it didn't much matter as long as he gained some respite from the pain. He'd held perfectly still while Chris attempted to clean the wound, and Chris had forced himself to be thorough despite the agony he felt thrumming in the rock-hard muscles under his hands.

"Go ahead and holler, you stubborn fool," he'd said, knowing full well Vin was holding back to spare his feelings. "Nobody's gonna hear you."

"'M fine." Vin's teeth were clenched, his hands knotted in the thin blanket.

The obstinate pain-in-the-ass had hung on right up to the moment when Chris flushed the wound with peroxide. Even then he never uttered a sound, just jerked and sucked in a sharp breath before his eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp. He'd been in and out ever since.

Chris leaned back against the post, fighting the urge to close his eyes. Though his head still throbbed and he was weary to the bone, he had no intention of falling asleep. If Vin needed him, he'd be there. And if by some miracle an opportunity to escape presented itself, he'd be ready.

He looked at Vin, marking the ragged rise and fall of his friend's chest, the bruised shadows beneath his eyes, and the translucent pallor of his skin. He didn't need to be Nathan to know the blood Vin expelled with each cough, coupled with his increasingly labored breathing, signaled serious internal injuries. Chris's throat tightened until he could barely swallow and a dull ache blossomed in his chest. His best friend was slipping away and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Vin moaned, his forehead creasing and his legs shifting restlessly. Eyes darted behind closed lids, his fingers twitched and his respiration quickened to shallow pants.

Chris placed a hand on his friend's uninjured shoulder. "Easy, Cowboy. I've got your back."

Vin quieted, sinking into a deeper sleep. Amazed by the power inherent in that simple touch, Chris chose to scoot closer rather than break the connection. He understood the degree of trust Vin's response implied, and was humbled by it.

Chris recalled clearly the first time he'd witnessed Vin's skittishness with physical contact. Team 7 had completed their first successful bust with Vin as sharpshooter, and he'd more than proven himself, pulling their collective asses out of the fire with the deadly accuracy of his aim. Vin had been helping Chris inventory the seized weapons when Buck stopped by and gave him a congratulatory slap on the back.

It was just a flinch, the slightest recoil, but for an instant something that looked suspiciously like fear flashed in Vin's wide blue eyes. Then the walls came up, Vin was chuckling at Buck's bullshit, and Chris questioned whether he'd imagined it all.

Until the time he hooked an affectionate arm around Vin's shoulders and felt his friend stiffen. Once he began paying attention, Chris noticed Vin sidestepped most of the good-natured roughhousing common among the others. And though he enjoyed Friday nights at the Saloon as much as the rest of them, he always sat with his back to the wall where he could keep an eye on the room and avoid the bumping and jostling inevitable in such a crowded space.

Vin didn't like to be touched.

Chris had been in law enforcement long enough to form his own suspicions about the root of that discomfort. Late one night after the others headed home, he'd pulled Vin's personnel file and ran a little background check of his own that would have made J.D. proud. The results said nothing--and everything--about Vin's childhood. Orphaned at five. A string of foster homes. A habitual runaway living on the streets by the age of sixteen. Angry. Withdrawn. Loner. Nowhere were the words "child abuse" used, yet they lurked behind every painful description.

Nathan had fueled Chris's concern. He'd gotten a good look at Vin's medical file after the sharpshooter caught a stray bullet. The injury, thankfully, turned out to be a superficial graze, but routine x-rays revealed a number of healed breaks, and Nathan had glimpsed some disturbing scars while Vin was too woozy to keep up his guard.

After a long conversation with Josiah, Chris had decided against confronting Vin. Whatever may have happened in the past wasn't affecting his ability to perform his job. Unless that changed, Chris would leave Vin to decide just how much he wanted to share. And up until a few hours ago, that had been almost nothing.

That hadn't stopped Chris from beginning his own campaign to win Vin's trust. Not a particularly tactile person himself--especially since the death of his wife and son--Chris went out of his way to touch Vin. An encouraging pat to the back. An affectionate squeeze of the neck. A casual hand on the shoulder. Playfully ruffling his hair. And the firm forearm clasp that had become a signature for the carefully cultivated bond between them.

Chris shook his head. Ironic, really. He'd been so focused on breaching Vin's barriers he'd failed to notice how completely Vin had slipped past his own. Working side by side around the ranch, Sunday afternoons watching football, long rides into the hills... It felt as if he'd finally found his way to spring after wandering through unending winter. Somehow one long-haired, soft-spoken Texan had thawed the ice around his heart.

Vin licked his lips and cracked open his eyes. "Chris?"

"Right here." Chris leaned closer so that Vin could see him without effort. "How are you doing?"

Vin ran his tongue over his lips again. "Thirsty."

Chris grimaced at the froggy croak. "Vin..."

"Just...just one swallow."

He scowled but slipped a hand under Vin's neck and poured a little water into his mouth. Vin gulped greedily, and Chris felt like an ogre when he pulled the bottle away. The skin under his fingertips was too warm and there was a slight flush to Vin's pale cheeks. Wetting a towel, Chris bathed his friend's face and neck.

Vin was uncharacteristically passive under his hands, preoccupied with working for each breath. "Feels good."

"How's the pain?"

"Had worse." Vin evaded his gaze.

Translation: bad. Real bad.

Chris checked his watch. He'd given Vin a couple Tylenol before cleaning and bandaging the wound, but that was hours ago. Fishing some blister packs from the first aid kit, he eased Vin upright. "Here," he said, slipping three of the gel caps into his friend's mouth followed by a little more water.

Vin swallowed obediently, but clutched Chris's arm when he started to lay him down. "Want to...sit up."

Chris shook his head. "You're shocky, pard. Even if you could manage sitting up--and I don't think you can--it's only gonna make things worse."

He tried again and met the same resistance. "Damn it, Vin! Did you listen to a word I just--"

"'S eas...easier...to breathe."

Shit. Of course lying flat on his back would make it harder to work for air. Chris touched the hand gripping his shirt. "Sorry. Wasn't thinking. Let's see what we can do."

Vin had lost ground in the last few hours. A dead weight, he was too weak to do more than hang on while Chris shifted him to lean against the support post. Unfortunately, the movement provoked a round of coughing that left Vin slumped in a semi-conscious tangle of limbs, fresh blood on his chin, the blanket, and Chris's shirt.

'Hurts," he panted in a raspy whisper. "Oh God, Chris...hurts."

"I know. Hang on." Chris's voice wavered and he blinked to clear his blurred vision. Vin never complained. He had to be in agony.

Slipping between Vin and the post, Chris pulled his friend's body against his chest. He wiped away the blood, pushing tangled hair back from Vin's sweaty face. "Just relax and breathe," he soothed, hoping Vin wouldn't notice how badly his hands shook.

"Trying." Vin rested his head on Chris's shoulder and sucked in air. Eventually his labored respiration steadied a bit. "Sorry."

"What the hell have you got to be sorry about?"

"Got us...into this. Shoulda...listened...you."

Chris snorted. "If anyone's at fault, it's mine. I'm the one had his head up his ass concerning the boy. And I never should've let you talk to Sinclair alone."

"Not your fault. Knew he was...bastard...not a gun runner." Vin coughed and more blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth. He dug his fingers into Chris's arm and squeezed his eyes shut.

"No more talking." Chris wet the towel and stroked it across Vin's lips.

"Don't want you...blamin' yerself." Vin looked up at him with bleary eyes. "Promise me, Chris."

Chris's heart stuttered at the resignation in Vin's voice. "Nobody's gonna do any blaming. Now shut up and breathe while I figure how to get us out of here."

Vin was silent for so long that Chris wondered if he'd nodded off again. Despite his best efforts, he started to drift himself.

"Been a...helluva ride...Cowboy."

"Don't." He ground the word between clenched teeth, grief and rage lumped together like a rock in his stomach.

"Got things...need to be said."

"You can tell me later, over that steak I owe you."

"Chris."

"Save your breath, Vin."

The trap door rattled, then creaked open, and Jonah crept down the steps. Pinned by Vin's limp body, Chris settled for a glare.

"Come to help? Or just watch?"

"I brought you some more water." Jonah shuffled a few steps away from the stairs and rolled three more bottles across the floor. "I w-wanted to s-see if you were okay."

"Do we look okay?"

Vin lifted his head, tightening his grip on Chris's arm. "Please."

That single, weak plea quenched Chris's anger, leaving only weariness in its place. "It's the middle of the night, kid. Why are you really here?"

Jonah bit his lip, his gaze settling on Vin. "I kept thinking... How...how did you know?"

Vin tensed, but his voice was gentle. "Been in your shoes...once."

Evidently not what Jonah expected. He widened his eyes and moved a little closer. "Y-your dad hit you?"

"Never knew my pa. Ma died...when I's just a little fella."

"Then how...?"

"Got passed around a lot. One foster home...things were bad."

Closing his eyes, Chris wondered how much horror lay hidden in that simple statement.

"He didn't always used to be this way." Jonah looked from Chris to Vin. "He had a t-temper, sure, but he never hit me. When my mom died..." He broke off and tears spilled down his cheeks. "He j-just misses her and I...I don't make it easy."

"Grief doesn't give you the right to beat the hell out of someone, Jonah. Especially not your own son."

Vin looked up at Chris, surprise and gratitude shining in his eyes. "He's right, kid."

Jonah scrubbed away the tears with the sleeve of his shirt. "He's all I've got. And he's still my dad. I-I owe him."

"Y' owe yerself. He ain't...gonna stop...'n y' can't fix 'im. Y' haveta...save yerself."

Chris frowned at the heavy drawl, more evidence of Vin's weakness.

Jonah shook his head. "I don't know how."

Vin sagged, his head dropping to Chris's shoulder as if too heavy to hold up. "Yeah. I think ya do." He coughed up more blood, his body trembling from the effort.

Backing away until he bumped into the steps, Jonah quickly turned and ran. "I gotta go."

"Jonah, please!" Chris called, hanging onto Vin.

The boy froze on the top step, and Chris could hear his ragged breathing. "I...I'll think about it." Then he was gone.

More coughing, and Vin moaned between each spasm. Chris wiped away tears and blood, rocking and murmuring encouragement until the attack finally passed. And Vin, the man who hated to be touched, leaned into the support, one hand clutching Chris's tee shirt and his face pressed into the hollow of Chris's throat.

"Can't," he gasped, shivering. "No more."

Resting his chin on Vin's head, Chris tightened his grip. "Yeah, you can," he said calmly, though it felt as if Vin's words had shattered something deep inside. "I'm here, Cowboy, and I'm gonna get you through this. Just...don't give up on me."

The warmth on his neck might have been blood or tears. Chris decided he'd rather not know which.

Continued in Chapter 6