Disclaimer: I don't own Heavy Rain or the characters, but I do love them so I try not to hurt them (too badly) ;)
A/N - A huge thank you to everyone for all your kind reviews so far. Everyone who participates in this fandom is so fantastic! I really appreciate all your support. You definitely keep me inspired to continue writing.
For this chapter I did some medical research online, and also drew from my own basic training in first aid and CPR, however I am not a trained medical professional so I'm sure there are plenty of inaccuracies in the medical scenario I have written. For that I do apologize in advance, please don't flame.
Also, in case anyone is interested, you might want to check out Tvtropes dot org. Here is a funny link to the Trope they call "Worst Aid" http:/tvtropes dot org/pmwiki/pmwiki dot php/Main/WorstAid . I came across this after I had finished writing this chapter, so although not intentional, how many of these can you spot in my scene? lol (Just replace a "." where I've spelled out "dot" in the URL.)
And last but not least, forgive me for how poorly I may have written any Blayden references. This is my first time writing Blayden (or any slash before), so I'm still feeling all of it out and trying to get the hang of it.
Okay... on with the show! Enjoy, and please review. :)
Rated M for swearing, violence, blood, and homo-erotic themes.
More flashes of lightening criss-crossed through the ever-darkening sky and Norman felt another drop of blood roll out of his nose and onto his shirt. Tilting his head back, Norman looked up; his vision had begun to clear, leaving little sparks flashing on his retinas. His hearing came flooding back to him like a needle skipping on a record player and when the blurriness finally receded he saw Blake clutching his chest with his hand. Then another loud bang resounded and Blake's body crumpled to the dirty floorboards.
Norman saw the man fall as if he were moving in slow motion. Carter's massive frame doubled over, almost bending in half at the waist, and then his knees buckled and gave out from underneath him. His body falling like a discarded piece of paper wadded up and then tossed aside. He fell backwards onto his right shoulder and hip and then the detective rolled and ended up laying on his back; his once ominous dark overcoat, now providing a soft cradle for the man's broken, shattered body. A grimace of pain crossed over the Lieutenant's face and his features contorted in agony. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut and his mouth opened to reveal pearly-white canines. A loud gasp escaped Carter's lips and was quickly followed by an even louder, "Fuck!"
Nathaniel stood, still holding the smoking gun, while towering over the detective's body. "In the name of the Lord, I exorcise thee, Satan. You shall burn in hell. In the undying furnace of damnation, you shall spend the rest of eternity," he cursed Blake, spitting onto the man's limp body, leaving his mark behind - a foamy white dribble of mucous running down the side of the detective's overcoat.
"Nathaniel," Norman stammered in shock, unable to even move. The religious zealot looked down at Carter's body and saw a pool of blood begin to form, crimson rivulets slowly running over the floor, staining the unpolished wood, while Norman's own bloody nose continued to drip onto his shirt. Nathaniel, frightened by the sight of all the blood, looked at the Agent in disbelief, his own gun loose in his hand, and then turned and ran out the door.
Norman shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. He could barely stand let alone make a run for Nathaniel. He felt like both his brain and his limbs were swimming in a thick pea soup. Damn it, it's too late to shoot. The man is out the door and down the stairs. Christ what a mess! I got a partner down and a suspect on the run. They'll have my badge and my gun for this!
"Christ Norman, don't just stand there," Blake hollered out in agony, clutching his arm and rolling back and forth on the floor. Blake! He's alive! Norman forced himself to push through his foggy Tripto withdrawal, like clearing a path through dirty cobwebs in an old forgotten dusty house. He bent down to the floor, placing his gun on the ground at his feet, to check on the detective. "Where are you hit?" Norman asked, gingerly feeling around Carter's body for signs of his injuries. Blake's only response was a low, guttural moan, as he ground his back molars together and continued to contort his face from the pain.
Norman tenderly probed the Lieutenant's limbs as gently as possible. As he moved his hands down Blake's left arm, his fingers snagged on some frayed strands of fabric. Wiggling his index finger, Norman probed further and found himself poking right through a bullet hole in the sleeve of Blake's overcoat. Shit! Carefully, Norman reached up and began to peel back the older man's coat from his shoulders. He pulled Blake's left arm out of the sleeve so he could tend to the bullet wound. The detective let out a gasping cry as Norman bent the man's elbow to manoeuvre his arm through the sleeve. "I'm sowry," apologized Norman. "It's gonna hurt, but I have to see how bad your injuries are." Norman then wrapped and tucked the rest of the coat somewhat haphazardly around the man's torso. He knew he had to keep Carter warm so he didn't go into shock from the loss of blood.
Pulling off his own leather jacket, Norman rolled it up into a soft, loose bundle. Carefully, he placed one hand under Carter's neck and his fingers gently caressed the salt and pepper hair at the base of the detective's skull. Norman was surprised to discover Blake's hair so soft to the touch, because it looked as coarse as everything else was about the man. That must be some conditioner he uses. Lifting Carter's head up slightly, Norman placed his jacket under the man's skull to cushion and support his head and neck from the hard floor. "Nnnnnn... fuck…." Blake swore, moving his head back and forth, trying to pull away from Norman's touch. "What the fuck…"
"Calm down Cartah," said Norman. "I'm gonna call for help. You're gonna be okay." He's still swearing at me, so that's gotta be a good sign. Norman plucked his cell phone out of his pants pocket and dialled 911. While the line was ringing, he began to fumble with Blake's tie. "Don't fucking touch me," Blake cursed at him, weakly attempting to raise an arm and swat at Norman's hand. But the detective failed miserably, barely able to raise it a couple of inches, and his appendage fell limply to the floor. His strength was clearly draining fast.
"I'm trying to help you breathe," explained Norman, trying to give the man some more air. God, my hands are trembling. His shaky fingers made it difficult to undo the tie, the slippery silk sliding through his grasp.
"911. What's the nature of your emergency?" asked the 911 operator as she came on the line.
"This is FBI Agent Nahmen Jayden. I'm at 516 Ashwood Lane, Apt 4. I have an officer down, and the perp is on the run," explained Norman as he continued to fumble with Blake's tie. "Send medical assistance and a back-up squad. Put out an APB, the shooter's name is Nathaniel Williams. White male, 39 years of age, brown hair, brown eyes. About 5'8". Last seen wearing jeans, a green shirt and a light-gray jacket. He's also wearing a silver crucifix and is armed and dangerous. I repeat, armed and dangerous."
"Help and backup is on the way Agent Jayden," assured the operator.
"Great," said Norman and he quickly hung up the phone and dropped it to the floor so he could turn his full attention back to Blake. Finally he managed to undo the knotted tie and loosened the collar of the detective's shirt. Blake moaned and his eyelids fluttered. Norman reached out a hand and slapped it across his face. "Wake up!" Norman shouted. "You have to stay awake."
He grabbed Blake's chin in his hand and the Lieutenant opened his eyes again. "Get your hands off me," he groaned. "That's it," said Norman. "Stay with me." He gently caressed Blake's face, feeling the prickles of stubble already growing on his cheeks. Christ, the man has enough testosterone coursing through his veins; he must have to shave four times a day.
Despite the hostility between the two men, the last thing Norman wanted was for Blake to die, especially since it was due to his own fuck up that they were in this precarious situation. Norman realized he had to do something to quickly staunch the bleeding. His tie! I can make a tourniquet with the tie!
Norman carefully probed Blake's arm, exploring the folds of his shirtsleeve, until his fingers came across the ragged edges of the cloth. The textile was blackened and singed and Blake's bicep had a half-inch diameter wound from the .45 caliber bullet. It looked like it had travelled straight through the muscle and blood was rapidly escaping the damaged tissue. Norman used the edge of Blake's shirt to wipe away the blood to get a closer look at the injury The wound was clean through, entry and exit holes both clearly visible, so there was no danger of an imbedded bullet causing infection, but the speed of the blood flow caused Norman to fear that a major artery had been hit. Although using a tourniquet increased the risk of possible limb amputation, the Agent took a gamble, knowing Blake would be happier to be alive even if he did end up losing an arm. Working quickly, Norman slipped Carter's tie from around his neck and tied the silky fabric in a tight know just above the bleeding wound, to cut off the arterial line to the detective's heart, hoping to stem the tide of blood. Carter groaned, his face wrenching in seemingly unbearable agony. He twisted his shoulders over the floor and wrenched his body as if caught in a battle with some invisible demon.
"Stop moving," Norman told him, placing both his hands on Blake's shoulders to try to keep him still. "Help is gonna be here soon." But the pool of blood beneath Blake's body continued to grow in volume. What the Fuck? I thought I stopped the bleeding? Christ where is it all coming from?
Then Norman suddenly remembered; he had heard two gunshots and neither he nor Blake had fired their weapons. He flung back the folds of the detective's overcoat that was keeping his wounded body warm. Carter's blue dress shirt underneath the coat had progressively turned a dark crimson colour from the coagulating blood. Swiftly, Norman began to undo the buttons on Blake's shirt and then thought better of it and ripped the fabric apart, the tiny white buttons scattering in multiple directions over the hard wood floor.
He let out a loud gasp as he saw the gaping, bloody wound on the lower left side of Blake's abdomen, just below his ribcage. Norman tore the man's shirt off the rest of his body, the fabric ripping into pieces at his excessive force. Wadding up the shirt, Norman wrapped it around his hand and began to compress the wound, applying direct pressure to the injury. "Nnnnggghhhh," Blake cried out in pain. "Son of a bitch!"
"Keep talking Cartah, stay with me!" Norman commanded the Lieutenant. He pressed harder on the bleeding wound, his eyes speedily assessing the rest of Blake's body, trying to determine if the man had any more hidden injuries. Taking in the sight of the detective's bare chest, he saw the line of thick, black hair beginning at his neck and sprinkled over his pecs, nipples and down his chest, thinning over his abdomen before meeting up with the coarser, darker line of pubic hair just below his navel. Norman felt a stirring in his own abdomen and lower as he drank in the view before him. Carter's arms, shoulders and abdominal muscles were well defined; he obviously lifted weights on a regular basis. It was evident he took pride in his appearance and looked after himself very well. For someone in his 40's, he appeared to have the physique of a much younger man, albeit with just a slight thickening around his middle, likely due to the onset of middle age and a desk-job.
His flesh was swarthy and his skin was scattered with scars and marks, all proof of past injuries. Making sure to keep tight pressure on Carter's current gunshot wound, Norman lightly ran his free hand over Blake's chest, stopping to stroke a gnarled scar underneath his right nipple. It resembled the puckered protuberance of a navel orange and it matched the size and shape of a 9mm bullet. Clearly Blake had been shot before. Running his hand lower, Norman traced what looked like a 4-inch surgical scar across his upper abdomen. Gallbladder surgery? A large tattoo was displayed front and centre over Carter's right pectoral muscle. A silver police shield with scrolled writing spelling out "To Serve and Protect" flowed across the badge. Underneath was the number 572. Carter's Badge number? Above the shield was a feathered eagle, with both wings spread, as if about to take flight. Norman touched the tattoo tenderly, wondering how long ago Carter had gotten it. By the look of the faded ink, it was plenty long ago. Probably got it when he was fresh out of the academy, just a young, wide-eyed rookie cop with plenty of enthusiasm and vigour. And now here he is lying in a pool of his own blood, all because of my carelessness. Norman forced himself to sniff back the lump that was beginning to well up in his throat. Stop thinking like that and pull yourself together!
Another moan escaped Blake's mouth and Norman pulled his hand away from the lieutenant's flesh as if he had been burned. His eyes roamed over the wound he was currently applying pressure to and then glanced over at the tourniquet on Blake's arm. "Ah shit!" Norman exclaimed. The silk tie had slipped free of the knot and come undone.
Grabbing Blake's right hand, still sheathed in his thick, black leather gloves, he pressed the detective's fingers against the shirt he was holding over the bullet hole "Here, press as hard as you can," said Norman, hoping the man had some strength left in him.
"Fuckin' …. Asshole…," Blake retorted, the words not half as scathing as usual, forcing the expletives out through long ragged breaths. His gloved fingers fluttered weakly, as he attempted to hold back the blood that was continuing to pour from the wound.
Norman grabbed the tie and tried to reapply the tourniquet but it was useless. The silk was drenched with blood, an ineffective jumble of wet fabric. Dropping the tie on the floor, Norman looked around, looking for something else he could use for a tourniquet. He didn't want to fumble with his own tie; the silk would again just turn into a soggy mess. Scanning Blake's body, he quickly caught his eye on the glinting silver buckle of the detective's belt. That'll work! I forgot to wear a belt today, so I'll just have to use Carter's.
Norman reached over and grabbed a hold of Carter's belt and began to undo the buckle. Nervously, his shaking hands fumbled with the prong as he attempted to pull it free from the hole in the leather tongue. His hand brushed the front of Carter's crotch and he immediately felt the massive bulge in the lieutenant's pants. "You…. fuckin' queer…" panted Blake, "Don't be… fuckin' doin'… no fag things to me." Feeling a stirring in his own pants, Norman swallowed hard and he continued to work on unfastening the belt. Get it together Norman and stop thinking about what masculine delights are hidden underneath Carter's pants.
Finally he had the buckle open and began to feed the belt through the pant loops. Blake groaned in pain, as Norman adjusted the man onto his side to get the rest of the belt free from under his waist. Gently easing Carter back down onto the floor, Norman's eyes grew wide as the man's pants slipped lower onto his hips without the aide of the belt to keep them up. A treasure trail of coarse, black pubic hair ran from the man's navel down into the waist of his boxer briefs that were now sticking up above the waist of his dress pants. Jesus H. on a pogo stick!
Norman's crotch stirred again, as he felt his own body begin to betray him. Ignoring the pulsing in his groin, he quickly worked with the belt to fasten it around Blake's arm. Tightly pulling it just above the bullet hole, stemming the flow of blood once again. Looking back to Blake's chest wound, he saw the detective's once blue shirt was now completely soaked through with blood. It was a gory mess. Shit! Where the hell are the cops and paramedics. How much time has passed since I called? Norman looked at his watch, and found it had only been two minutes since he made the call to 911. God it feels like two hours!
Feeling the panic rising in his stomach, Norman didn't know how much longer Blake could hold on. He put a hand to Blake's throat; he could still feel a pulse but it was getting thready and weaker. Norman could see the man's flesh becoming paler, as blood continued to exit his body. He knew Carter was going down the drain and fast. This virile beast of a man was succumbing before his very eyes. His breath sounds had begun to sound raspy and wheezy… almost liguidy. God, did he have a punctured lung? Was it filling with blood?
Norman looked around the dingy apartment and then remembered the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Quickly deciding he could leave the detective alone for a few brief seconds, he was up on his feet and dashed into the bathroom. Norman stood in front of the glass medicine cabinet and saw his dishevelled image staring back at him. His reflection showed smeared dried blood on his face, running from his nose to his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary and his once finely gelled and styled hair was matted to his head from sweat and blood. The Agent yanked open the cabinet door, practically pulling it off its hinges. He swept his hands quickly over the contents, searching for anything that could prove helpful to the injured man lying in the next room. "Come on… bandages… gauze.. there's gotta be somethin' I can use!" Norman muttered, but his search was in vain. Nathaniel had a well-stocked pharmaceutical inventory of various pills and vitamins, but not a single first aid supply to be found. Not even a fuckin' bandaid!
Hesitating, Norman's fingers hovered over a bottle of Vicodin. He paused for a minute and then picked up the bottle, quickly scanning the label. He thought about giving a dose of the medicine to Blake to help him with his pain, but then scratched that idea. The Agent remembered from his first aid training at Quantico that narcotics could severely suppress a victim's breathing and quite possibly kill them. God damn it! He dropped the bottle of pills and raced from the bathroom into the kitchen. Quickly, Norman began opening up all the cupboard doors, searching for anything to use as a bandage. Then his eyes lit up when he spotted a roll of plastic wrap on the counter. He grabbed the wrap and then rummaged through a drawer and found a roll of duct tape and also grabbed what looked like a relatively clean dishtowel from the side of the sink.
With his newfound prizes in his hands, Norman rushed back into the living room and knelt down next to the detective. Blake moaned as Norman pulled back the blood soaked shirt from his chest wound. Working quickly, the profiler unfurled the plastic wrap and laid out a piece just large enough to cover the injury. Ripping pieces of duct tape from the roll with his teeth, Norman secured the patch on three sides, leaving the fourth side untaped. This would help to prevent any air from entering Carter's chest cavity and also re-inflate what Norman had diagnosed as a collapsed lung. Good ol' field medicine. You can just call me MacGyver. He then folded up the towel and pressed it on top of the patched wound to staunch any further bleeding.
Blake's guttural moans and groans had slowed and weakened during Norman's medical procedures and then the Agent realized Carter's cusses and insults were no longer forthcoming. "Stay with me Blake!" Norman yelled. "Don't you dare fuckin' die on me!" He slapped the detective across the face and Carter's eyelids flickered but remained closed. "Don't you make me put my fuckin' lips on your mouth!" Norman shouted, thinking a sarcastic gay joke might get the Lieutenant's attention.
He felt Carter's neck for a pulse again. Damn, nothing. Leaning over, he cocked his head and put his ear to Blake's mouth. He couldn't hear a single breath sound. Fuck! Carter's skin was turning dusky and his lips had faded to a pale bluish tinge.
Putting his first aid training to good use again, Norman started CPR. Leaning over the lieutenant, he interlaced his hands, one on top of another and placed the heel of his hand in the middle of Blake's chest. He then started to do chest compressions, quickly pumping up and down. The man was built like an ox, and Norman could feel every muscle, bone and sinew as he continued to pump. 100 pushes a minute, I need to do 30 compressions. Norman mentally reminded himself of the annual CPR refreshers he had to take at Quantico.
He stopped the chest compressions and then tilted Blake's chin up, plugging the man's nose with one hand. Pausing only for a mili-second to briefly consider what he was about to do, Norman then placed his lips to Blake's mouth and blew a huge breath into the man's lungs. Norman realized it was not entirely unpleasant, having his mouth against the lips of a man who had spewed pure vitriol at him almost the entire past 24 hours. Blake's lips were dry but warm. His mouth tasted of toothpaste. Crest Vanilla Mint flavour if Norman was correct. And something else? Just an underlying hint of coffee. Norman felt himself swell in arousal, as his tongue made contact with Blake's. Goddamnit, stop getting turned on by this jerk and just save his damn life! You are being so inappropriate!
Norman watched as Blake's chest rose and fell with the breath and then he breathed into the man's mouth again. "Damn you Blake! Breathe you fucking prick!" Norman shouted. But still nothing. He then moved back to chest compressions. Harder this time. Leaning over the man's body, he pumped with all his strength. His breathing became laboured and he could feel the sweat running down his face and arms. This was a thousand times harder to do on a real person than on the practice dummies at Quantico. Fucking rookie! Never had to give CPR to a real human being before.
He paused and tilted Blake's chin up again, blowing more air into the man's mouth and lungs. The lieutenant's thick goatee tickled Norman's face, as he breathed once more into Blake's mouth. Still nothing. This wasn't how I ever imagined kissing you, you douche bag.
Again Norman moved back to chest compressions. Where the fuck is that goddamn ambulance? He heard some cracking and popping sounds with each pump and realized he had probably broken a few of the man's ribs. How long can I keep this up? His arms began to buckle from fatigue as he swapped out to give two more deep rescue breaths to the detective. Back to chest compressions again, "Fuck Blake, you have to fight," Norman pleaded, continuing to rail on the man's muscular chest.
The wailing sound of a siren finally sounded in the distance. Norman heard the long repeating squeal of a cop car, followed by the distinct bee-boo, bee-boo of an ambulance siren. Finally, help was almost here.
A/N - In case anyone is curious about my story and chapter titles, I always suck at coming up titles for stories so many of my pieces end up going unnamed. So I decided to turn to latin for some inspiration. The story title "Mea Culpa" means "My Mistake" or "My Fault."
Chapter 1 - "Damnant quod non intellegunt" means "They condemn what they do not understand"
Chapter 2 - "Um vita est, spes est" means "While there is life, there is hope "
I think the reason why I chose these particular phrases is evident for each of the chapters.
