Note: This is a long-ish story centred around Iain. Expect threats of violence, physical violence, and heaps of emotional trauma.
Cleaning vomit off his boots three times in twelve hours had to be as bad as Iain's day could get. He rubbed at his temple, his keys jangling too loudly in the dark carpark as he shuffled toward his car. Somewhere behind him boots scuffed tarmac, the sound almost drowned out by his yawn. Some shifts just hit harder than others, and right now even the lumpy mattress waiting in his flat sounded like heaven.
The car door creaked as he pulled it open and slipped inside, sinking into the seat for a long moment. Then another creak sounded and he twisted round in time to see his passenger door open. The figure lunged inside, tossing something on the back seat and slamming the door before Iain could get a word out.
"Hey, what are you—"
The words died on his lips as he registered the dark shape in the man's hands.
A gun.
"Drive," the man demanded, jabbing the weapon towards him. "Now. Keys in the ignition, and drive."
"Okay, take it easy," Iain said, forcing his eyes from the gun to the man's face. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his eyes pinched around the edges. He didn't need to hear the man's unsteady breaths to know he was hurt.
"Start the car. Don't try anything. This is loaded."
Iain swallowed and jerked his head in a nod as he turned the key, the sound of the engine suddenly loud in the close confines of the vehicle.
"Where am I going?" he asked, his voice somehow coming out steady despite the fear spiking through him.
"Turn right out of the carpark." The gun jammed into his ribs. "Don't even think about trying anything heroic."
"No heroics," Iain repeated, pulling out of the space and manoeuvring through the nearly empty car park. "Just don't do anything you might regret, yeah?"
"You let me worry about my own regrets."
Iain risked a glance across at the passenger in time to see a pained grimace flicker across his face.
"You don't look so good, mate. You sure you want me to drive you away from the hospital?"
"Funny," the man said, sucking in a strained breath. "Next right. And watch your speed. If we get pulled over, you won't like what happens next."
Iain flicked a glance down at the speed dial and eased his foot off the accelerator before signalling and taking the right turn. He kept his focus on the road in front of him, trying to ignore the panic tapping away inside his head in tandem with his pounding heart. Whoever this man was, he needed him alive. He was clearly in no state to drive the car himself, which meant Iain was safe, for the moment. When they got to wherever they were going was another matter.
"What are you?" the man asked, and Iain darted a confused look his direction.
"That was…staff carpark. Are you a doctor, a nurse?" He broke off with a sharp gasp as they went over a speed bump.
"Sorry," Iain said reflexively as the man grimaced. "Paramedic. Look, are you sure I can't take you somewhere to get some help?"
"Go left up here."
"My name's Iain," Iain said, flicking the signal on. "What's yours?"
"None of your business," he said, his voice hardening.
Iain nodded. "Fair enough. I just—"
"Stop tal—ah! Stop….talking. Just drive," the man insisted between sharp breaths, the weapon trembling in his hand as he jabbed it at Iain. Iain nodded—pushing his luck further wasn't going to help anything.
For ten minutes he drove in silence, following the man's directions, listening as his breathing became more ragged, the sound of his pain more pronounced.
"Up here. Pull up over there."
Iain signalled to the side of the road—not that there was much point, he hadn't seen a single vehicle in the last five minutes. His throat tightened as he slowed the vehicle to a stop in the dilapidated looking industrial estate, glancing over at the gunman. The man whose face he'd seen. The man who didn't need him anymore.
"Listen mate," he said, his hands still on the wheel, careful not to make any movements that might look threatening. "You're obviously in pain, yeah? Let me help you."
"Turn the engine off."
Iain cut the engine, and the sudden silence was broken only by the strained breathing of the gunman.
"Keys. Give them here."
Iain pulled them from the ignition and held them out carefully, keeping his other hand on the wheel. The man watched him warily for a second, gun pointed at Iain's chest, and then snatched them from him.
"What've you got in the car?"
"Wha—I…" Iain shook his head, confused.
"Medical supplies! What've you got?"
Iain's stomach sank. There was no way the gunman was going to like his answer.
"First aid kit in the boot, but it's basic." He shook his head. "Too basic for you what you need. You don't look in great shape, mate."
"Alright, out. Get it. Slowly!"
Iain nodded, raising his free hand slightly as he opened the door and slowly climbed out. The car rocked slightly as the gunman climbed out the other side with a grunt of pain. The whole area was deserted, and looked like it had been that way for a while. The nearby streetlight was out, and the warehouse they'd pulled up outside had several broken windows, some boarded up and covered in fading graffiti. There was nowhere to run to, and even in the gunman's weakened state, the weapon made it too risky to tackle him. He had to ride this out, and convince him to put the gun down. He'd been in worse situations than this one, he just had to keep his head.
"Alright mate, I'm opening the boot."
The man nodded, one hand pressed to his side as the other kept the gun on Iain. He tried to ignore the weapon as he lifted the boot, letting the man see the small first aid kit as he pulled it out, already knowing its contents was nowhere near up to the job of patching up this kind of injury.
"Inside." The man gestured with the weapon to the warehouse. Iain eyed it warily. "Now! Move."
"Alright, okay. Easy."
The door was hanging from its hinges and Iain stepped through, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the few unboarded windows.
"Over there. Away from the door."
Iain glanced back over his shoulder at the gunman, moving in the direction he gestured, keeping one hand raised and the other holding the first aid kit by his side.
"Drop the kit. Keep moving. Yeah, ri—" He broke off with a hiss. "Right there. Sit."
He moved in and stooped to grab the kit with another gasp as Iain lowered himself onto the floor. The man tossed something at his feet—a zip tie. Iain stared at it, unmoving.
"Around your wrists. Put it on."
"Come on, mate," Iain said, shaking his head, fear spiking through him. With his hands bound, he'd be completely helpless, even more than he already was.
"It's that," the man said, and then raised the gun a fraction. "Or this."
"I don't think you want to use that."
"You're right, I don't. So give me a choice."
Iain held his eye for a long moment, then nodded, reaching forward to pick up the zip tie. He threaded it through, making a loop, then manoeuvred it awkwardly around his wrists. Maybe if he just looked like he was complying…
"Tighten it. With your teeth."
Resigned, Iain gripped the loose end of the tie in his teeth and pulled it closed.
"Good. Don't move."
"I'm not going anywhere, mate."
The man eyeballed him for a moment, something unreadable on his face, then he lowered the gun and opened the first aid kit.
"Why don't you let me help you with that?" Iain tried. "You brought me here for a reason, right?"
"I needed a driver."
"And you just happened to be outside a hospital?"
"I made a judgement call," he said, and then blew out a breath. "A bad one."
"It's not too late to change your mind. Untie my hands and I can take you back. Get you seen by a doctor."
"No. No doctors, no cops." The man went back to rooting through the kit. Iain watched from where he sat as the man searched through the kit's contents with shaking hands, pain evident in every movement, and in his shallow breaths. Through the coat hanging open he could see the large dark stain spreading on his t-shirt, and the small round hole at its centre. It was a miracle the man was still upright, but something about his posture suggested he was used to pain, and used to working through it.
"You're losing blood," Iain said. "If you won't let me take you to the hospital, at least let me help you."
"Why would you do that?" The man stopped searching through the kit long enough to stare suspiciously at him, and Iain felt his heartrate notch, but he kept his voice calm.
"Because I'm a paramedic. Helping people is what I do. Look, I can see you've been shot. That wound needs to be treated, and you can't do it yourself. From what I can tell, you're showing signs of shock. That means—"
"I know what it fucking means," the man snapped, then winced, pressing his hand against his side.
"How long ago were you shot?" Iain asked.
The man hesitated, then seemed to decide if didn't matter if Iain knew. "About three hours."
Three hours. That was too long for a gunshot wound to go untreated.
"I need to look at the wound mate. There could be internal bleeding, anything."
"This wasn't the plan," the man muttered, leaning against the pillar beside him with a grimace. "None of it."
"What was the plan?" Iain asked carefully, trying to keep him talking, build a rapport.
"Simple job. In and out." The man let out a bitter laugh. "Should have known better."
"Listen to me, even with my hands like this, I can do something to slow the bleeding, maybe buy you enough time to figure out your next move."
The man considered. "How do I know you won't try anything?"
"Because I'm not an idiot," Iain replied bluntly. "You've got a gun. I've got zip-tied hands. Simple math."
The man regarded him for a moment, then grimaced, clenching his jaw against a wave of pain. "Yeah. Okay. But no tricks."
"No tricks," Iain agreed, starting to rise. The man tensed immediately, jerking the gun up. Iain froze.
"Easy. I'm just going to come over there and check the wound. That's it."
He waited, keeping his bound hands clearly visible in front of him. A long moment passed, the air silent except for the man's laboured breaths, and then he nodded again.
Iain rose slowly, keeping his movements as steady as he could with his hands bound, and approached. When he reached the man, he knelt beside him.
"I'm just going to check the wound," he said again, waiting until the man nodded again before he carefully nudged the jacket aside and lifted his t-shirt. The man sucked in a sharp breath, and Iain nodded as he took in the small jagged hole, already inflamed around the edges.
"Yeah, okay. I know that hurts, mate. I'm going to put on some gloves so I don't infect the wound, and then I'm going to put some pressure on it, see if I can slow the bleeding, okay?"
"Do it."
He reached into the first aid kit and awkwardly pulled a pair of gloves onto his bound hands, wincing as the zip tie bit into his wrists. Then he pulled out wipes, gauze, and bandages. There was nothing in this kit that could come even close to treating a gunshot wound, but he could at least buy the patient—and himself—a little time with what he had.
"I'm just going to move your jacket and check for an exit wound, okay?"
The man nodded, adjusting the gun to keep it aimed at him. Iain eyed the finger resting on the trigger, hoping like hell the man's hand didn't clench when he did this. As carefully as he could, he moved the jacket aside, and lifted the t-shirt at the back, but he could already see there was no blood on it. The unbroken skin under it confirmed what he knew.
"There's no exit wound—the bullet's still inside. You need surgery to remove it."
"Not happening. No d—"
"Yeah, I know," Iain said, swallowing his resignation. "No doctors, no cops. I'll do what I can, but that can't stay in there forever, and I can't remove it myself."
"Noted," the man said tightly. "Get on with it."
"Any chance you could put the gun down? This is going to hurt, and I'd really rather you didn't shoot me by accident."
"None. But don't worry—you don't try anything, I won't shoot you. I can handle the pain."
"Not your first time being shot?" Iain hazarded.
"Not your business," the man retorted, and Iain nodded.
"Fair enough. Try to stay still for me, mate."
He tore open one of the antiseptic wipes, cleaning the wound as carefully as he could. The man's jaw clenched, but the gun stayed steady in his hand, and Iain worked quickly, covering it with gauze and pressing a wad of bandage on top.
"Hold this here," he said. "Firm pressure."
The man's hand replaced his over the bandage, and Iain sat back, assessing.
"I'm sorry, this is about as much as I can do without proper equipment and medication. I've cleaned it, but I don't have any fluids or antibiotics, and you're going to need both."
"Alright, back up." The man gestured with the gun, sweat beading on his forehead, and Iain shuffled back on his knees. "More."
When there was about fifteen feet between them, the man finally nodded and lowered the gun.
"This is temporary at best. You need proper medical care."
"I…made it this far," the man said between laboured breaths. "I'll manage."
"Let me call someone. If not an ambulance, then—"
The man's gaze sharpened. "You have your phone on you?"
Iain realised his mistake too late. He swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah. In my pocket."
"Show me." He gestured with the gun. "Slowly."
Iain nodded again, easing his bound hands towards his pocket, and drawing the phone out, careful not to press anything that would draw the man's attention—and ire.
"Slide it over to me."
Iain did, and the man clamped his gun hand over his wound, using the other to scoop up the phone.
"They can track these," he said, glancing at it and then turning it off.
"If you think someone's already reported me missing, you're overestimating how much social life being a paramedic leaves time for," Iain said with a wry smile that faded as quickly as it had come. "I'm not expected anywhere until my shift tomorrow."
A fleeting, reluctant smile crossed the man's lips before he suppressed it. "Don't get smart," he warned, but some of the tension had left his voice. He tossed the phone across the warehouse, away from them both, and Iain watched it go with a rising sense of dread. He never should have mentioned it. Now he had no way to call for help; his only hope was convincing his captor to let him go or turn himself in, and he didn't seem inclined towards either.
"So what now?" Iain asked carefully. "I've done what I can without real supplies. What's your plan?"
"We wait."
"For how long? Because I don't want to worry you mate, but that wound isn't going to wait forever. Gauze and bandages aren't going to do much for internal bleeding."
The man's eyes hardened. "That's not your concern. We wait until I say we don't."
"Got it," Iain said, settling back as much as he could with his hands bound in front of him. "Whatever you say."