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Rob slipped out of the door, leaving Iain to take a breath and turn his attention back to Sam, where he found the man halfway alert and watching him.
"How bad is it?" Sam asked.
"I've seen worse. Your buddy Rob's organising some help with getting that bullet out. Until then, the stiller you can lie, the better."
"And you?"
Sam's probing eyes searched his face, and Iain ducked his head, busying himself with tidying the medical kit. "Yeah, not my best day, honestly."
He glanced toward the window, where he could see Rob pacing outside through a crack in the curtains, phone pressed to his ear, gun in one hand and tapping against his thigh.
"He's intense," Sam said, his voice still strained. "But he won't hurt you if you're helping."
"Yeah, well, I don't need a gun to my head to do my job." He tried to keep his tone light, and the bitterness suppressed, but from the look on Sam's face, he wasn't fooling anyone. He forced himself to moderate his tone. "Look, as long as you're in my hands, I'm going to do the best I can."
"Despite the guns?"
"Yeah. Despite that."
He glanced at the window in time to see Rob approaching the door, and quickly averted his eyes, focusing on adjusting the flow of Sam's drip.
The door opened with a creak, and Rob stepped inside, pocketing his phone. His eyes immediately scanned the room, first to Sam, then to Iain, checking for any changes in the minutes he'd been gone.
"How is he?" Rob asked.
"Stable," Iain said, dropping his hand from the drip line. "The fluids are helping."
Rob gave a curt nod and moved to the kitchenette area, where he filled a glass with water. He drank without taking his eyes off Iain, and Iain felt his own dry throat constrict.
"Any luck?" he asked, forcing his eyes from the water. "With the call."
"Maybe. He's calling back in a few minutes. He wants details about the injury." Rob drained the rest of the water and set the glass down. "He'll ask questions, I'll mute the phone and you'll tell me your answers."
Iain nodded, but Rob wasn't done.
"You'll say exactly what needs to be said for him to help," Rob stated, his tone making it clear this wasn't a request. "Nothing more. No attempting to pass messages. And not so much as a whisper while the phone's unmuted."
"Yeah, got it," Iain said.
He busied himself sorting through the medical supplies and checking on Sam's IV, acutely aware of Rob's heavy gaze from across the room, scrutinising his every move.
"I'm just gonna check your pulse," he said to Sam, whose eyes were half closed again. He mumbled something incoherent that Iain took for assent, and he pressed his gloved fingers to the inside of Sam's wrist. He had no way of timing the pulse except through his best guess, but it seemed to be slowing. But if the doctor was calling, he'd want facts, not guesses. His throat tightened at the thought of asking Rob for anything, but he buried the fear and bitterness, and twisted round to look over his shoulder. Rob's eyes hadn't left him, probably not for the whole time he'd been working.
"I need you to time while I take his pulse," Iain said. "Thirty seconds."
Rob said nothing, just pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped a few buttons, then nodded. Iain started counting.
"Time," Rob said after a short while. Iain nodded, making a mental note. Fifty-one beats, putting Sam's heart rate at 100-110. Faster than he'd like, but not surprising given the injury.
"How are you feeling?" he asked Sam quietly. Sam stirred, forcing his eyes open with what looked like a lot of effort.
"Dizzy," he said. "And…pain's bad."
"Yeah, I know, mate. Doctor won't be long."
Sam nodded jerkily, his eyes sliding shut again. The sound of Rob's phone broke the heavy silence, and Iain turned to look at him.
"It's him," Rob said, fixing Iain with a stare and resting his free hand on the weapon in his waistband. "Remember, I mute, you talk. Nothing else. Clear?"
Iain nodded, trying not to focus on the weapon. He was just going to be relaying medical information. He did it all the time.
…Just not usually at gunpoint.
Rob stared at him for a moment longer, then answered the call and put in on loudspeaker, setting the phone on the counter.
"Yeah, I'm here," Rob said. No names, Iain noted—he guessed whoever this doctor was, Rob didn't know or trust him.
"Thanks for your patience. Appraise me of the patient's condition, please."
Rob hit mute, and glanced meaningfully at Iain.
"He's in shock. Heart rate is 100-110, tachycardic. BP's low, maybe 80 over 50."
"Maybe?" Rob snapped.
"There's no cuff here," Iain said carefully. "Guesswork's the best I've got." Rob nodded, and Iain pressed on. "Resps are 18 to 22, shallow. Skin's cold and clammy. He's semi-conscious, reporting dizziness when he's coherent."
Rob waited a second, then unmuted to phone and relayed Iain's assessment.
"Noted," the doctor said, his voice calm. "Describe the wound, please."
Rob muted again.
"Single gunshot wound, lower abdomen, righthand side. Entry wound's small, maybe 9mm, no exit wound." He hesitated. The doctor needed to know what he was walking into, but if he could hardly say Sam needed a CT with Rob glaring at him, hand still resting on his pistol grip. "External bleeding's slowed, but he's not clotting right. I suspect internal bleeding."
He carefully avoided using the word 'guess' a second time, and let out a quiet breath as Rob relayed his message.
"And what's been done so far?" the doctor asked. "Any treatment, drugs?"
Iain waited for Rob to hit mute.
"We've got a 500ml saline bag running—" he twisted round to look at it, "—about half done. I've packed him out with haemostatic gauze and a pressure bandage to control the bleeding. 1 gram of IV paracetamol for pain, plus broad-spectrum antibiotics."
Rob relayed Iain's words, then added, "Does that sound right to you?"
"He hasn't had any morphine?" the doctor asked. Rob tensed, his eyes hardening on Iain, and his tone to match.
"No. I have some here, should he have it?"
"No," the doctor said firmly. "With his blood pressure that low, keep him on just the paracetamol. If you'd used it, I suspect we'd be having a very different conversation. Keep doing what you're doing."
"Noted," Rob said, and Iain let his eyes slide closed for a second, glad the doctor had backed him up and eased Rob's suspicion at least a little.
"Any idea where the bullet's sitting?" the doctor asked, his tone making it clear he knew he was being optimistic in asking.
Iain answered anyway, once Rob thumbed the mute button.
"Impossible to say without imaging. Probably lodged in muscle, fat, maybe gut but I think he'd worse if it was. I'd estimate 3-8cm deep, depending on the angle." Deciding it was better not to give Rob any more ideas about digging it out, he risked adding, "He's stable enough to wait for the doctor to check properly."
Rob nodded curtly and relayed the message.
"Good," the doctor said. "I'm wrapping up things here as quickly as I can, and I should be with you in about three hours. Can your patient hold for that long?"
Iain didn't answer immediately when Rob hit mute. He didn't want to make promises he couldn't keep, not when the consequence was Rob's gun.
"Say what you're thinking," Rob demanded, his voice hard.
"He's stable for now," Iain said carefully, "but faster would be better."
Rob unmuted. "Looks that way, but step on it, doc."
"Noted. I'll be with you shortly. I assume this is a clean situation?"
Rob eyed Iain. "Yeah, it's clean. Just get here."
He ended the calling, and Iain jerked his gaze downward.
"It seems like the doctor agrees with you about the morphine," Rob said, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
Iain didn't reply, sensing some kind of trap. The last thing he needed was to rile the agitated man with a gun.
"But if you think that changes anything for you, you're wrong."
"That's not why I did it," Iain said quietly.
Rob regarded him for a long moment.
"We'll see," he said at last.
Iain just nodded, keeping one eye on Sam. Rob had promised the doctor a 'clean situation' and while Iain didn't know exactly what he meant by that, it wasn't hard to guess. And it wasn't hard to see that Iain being here meant a witness. Someone who could identify the doctor after the fact. If he survived.
Rob didn't seem like the sort to take chances.
He tried to ignore the uneasiness in his stomach and focus on counting Sam's breathing, not that there was a whole lot of point when he couldn't time it. He glanced around again on the off chance he'd missed a clock somewhere, but he already knew that he hadn't. He had no way of measuring how much time was passing, aside from the small gap in the curtains, but even that only told him it was still dark outside. Not exactly useful information, given that it had been almost nine pm by the time he'd finally got off shift—probably about an hour ago, but maybe more. Either way, morning was still a long way off, and if he wanted to survive to see it, he needed to be careful. Rob had every advantage: he had the house keys, the car keys, the phone, and the guns. The only thing in Iain's favour was his medical knowledge. As long as he was useful, he was alive. And he needed to be out of here before his usefulness ran out.
Rob settled into one of the armchairs, carefully positioned in one corner of the room so he could see Iain, Sam, and the door. The kitchenette was behind him, the waist-high counter creating a small barrier between the two spaces. From where Iain sat, he could see half of the kitchenette behind the counter, Sam…and of course Rob. Always Rob. Even when he wasn't looking that way, he couldn't suppress the constant awareness of the man's presence. Looking at the door or the window meant turning, but every twitch seemed to heighten Rob's unceasing surveillance.
He had no idea how much time passed before the pressure in his bladder started to become uncomfortable. He'd been ignoring it for a while, since right after they'd made it to the cottage, but it was becoming harder and harder to shut out. He shifted his weight again, trying to put it from his mind, distract himself with monitoring Sam's vitals, but the pressure was impossible to ignore, and it was only going to get worse. His stomach sank at the thought of making the inevitable request, but he couldn't put it off any longer.
"I need to use the bathroom," he said quietly, meeting Rob's watchful gaze.
Rob's expression hardened immediately, his grip tightening around the gun resting in his lap. "Hold it."
"I can't," Iain replied, trying to keep his voice even despite the humiliation. "Look, you've made your point. You're in charge—I get that. I'm not trying to cause trouble. I just…I need to go."
Rob studied him a long moment. Finally, he stood, gesturing with the gun towards one of the two doors at the back of the living room.
"Two minutes," Rob stated flatly. "Leave the door open."
Iain blinked, momentarily stunned by the demand. "What?"
"You heard me," Rob said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Door stays open where I can see you. Two minutes. Or you can piss yourself sitting right there."
The crude ultimatum hung in the air between them. Iain felt a flush of humiliation heating his face, but the pressure in his bladder left him little choice.
"Fine," he said, the word coming out more sharply than he'd intended.
Rob's eyes narrowed.
"Mind your tone," he said, his tone measured and deliberate. "You're alive because you're useful. Don't make me reconsider that assessment."
Iain swallowed down his indignation, and forced his eyes downward. "Sorry," he said, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. "Can I go now?"
Rob's gaze pinned him in place a moment longer before he nodded and stepped back, gesturing with the gun for Iain to move. Carefully, Iain rose to his feet, his legs protesting after sitting in one position for so long. He made his way to the door Rob had indicated, keeping a cautious distance between him and the gunman, moving slowly so as not to give him any reason to mistake the action for defiance. The movement only made the pressure in his bladder worse, but he forced his steps to remain steady as Rob stepped in behind him, making the back of his neck tingle.
He pushed open the door, finding himself staring at a small, old-fashioned bathroom that didn't have so much as a window. No way he could have escaped, even if Rob hadn't been watching. He swallowed down his resentment before it could make it to his face, acutely aware of the single mirrored cabinet hanging in the room, through which Rob was probably studying his every move. The rest of the bathroom was as bare as it was tiny: a toilet, a sink, a shower, a small bin, and a towel rail.
Feeling Rob's eyes boring into his back, he shuffled over to the toilet, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the bin beside it, stalling for precious seconds before he forced himself to confront the inevitable.
His hands trembled slightly as he unzipped his trousers, painfully aware of his exposure, the mundane act transformed into a humiliating spectacle. He fixed his gaze on the wall, focusing on a small water stain on the tiles, desperate to maintain some shred of dignity as he relieved himself.
The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the small space, each second stretching endlessly as he felt Rob's unrelenting surveillance. When he finished, he zipped up quickly and moved to the sink, avoiding looking in the mirror to see the man watching from behind.
There was a bar of soap and a razor on the sink. For a second the sight stunned Iain: it was so unexpectedly domestic, so ordinary, in contrast with the armed man who'd just watched him relieve himself.
"Don't fucking touch that," Rob snapped. Iain's head jerked up, meeting his eye in the mirror, realising the gunman had seen him notice the razor.
"I'm just washing my hands," Iain promised, keeping his voice steady. "That's it. I don't want to hurt anyone."
He waited for Rob's curt nod before he turned on the tap and picked up the bar of soap, careful to keep his hands away from the razor. Shit, he really didn't want to die in a bathroom in the middle of nowhere for trying to clean his hands.
He drew in a shaky breath and started washing his hands with methodical precision, the familiar routine steadying him just a little.
"Time's up," Rob said.
Iain nodded, even though he was sure it hadn't been two minutes. He quickly dried his hands on the threadbare towel and eased his way past Rob, back into the main room. The gun never wavered, casually but unmistakably pointing in his direction the whole time.
"I've been thinking," Rob said, gesturing for Iain to move back over to Sam. "You've been cooperative so far, but three hours is a long time, and you're looking at that door a bit too often for my liking."
Iain opened his mouth to protest, but Rob silenced him with a sharp shake of his head.
"Don't bother denying it. I've been watching you assess your options since we got here." He reached into his jacket with his free hand and pulled out a set of zip ties, thicker and sturdier looking than the one that had bound Iain's hands earlier. "So we're going to make some adjustments."
Iain felt his heart quicken. "I can't treat Sam properly if I'm restrained," he said, trying to keep his voice calm despite his rising fear. With his hands bound, he'd be helpless again, even more at Rob's mercy than he already was.
"I've thought about that. You need one hand free to treat him, but you don't need to move around freely."
"I need both hands to treat him," Iain insisted.
"Well, you'd better find a way to adapt, because one is what you've got. Right here." He pointed to the floor beside the sofa arm at Sam's head. "Sit. Facing the sofa."
Iain hesitated, weighing his options and finding none that didn't leave him in an even worse position. Slowly, he complied, putting his back to Rob, and immediately feeling more vulnerable.
"Further forward."
He shuffled forward so his knees were almost touching the sofa, right below where Sam was lying, then twisted to look back at Rob over his shoulder.
"Eyes forward. Left hand up here," Rob said, tapping the sofa's wrought iron arm rest. Resigned, Iain swallowed the objection he knew would be ignored, and lifted his arm onto the rest, looking away from his captor as instructed. Rob quickly looped one zip tie around Iain's wrist, tightening it securely, and then looped a second tie through it and then through the iron detailing on the arm rest, tethering him in place with his arm just above his shoulder.
Iain tentatively tested the tie, and immediately it bit into his wrist. There was no give at all in the arm rest at all, and the position was already becoming uncomfortable. If Rob intended to keep him like this for the entire three hours…
He glanced back over his shoulder at Rob again, now several steps away, and the gun that was still trained on him. Rob nodded in approval.
"That works."
"It doesn't work," Iain objected. "I can't even reach the kit from here."
"You'll get that back in a minute," Rob said, taking hold of the bag and moving it further away. "Once I've checked it for anything sharp you might want to help yourself to."
"Are you joking?" Iain snapped, turning to follow Rob's movements, then biting back a curse as the movement pulled on his shoulder.
Rob stared at him, face hardening. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Iain scrubbed his free hand over his face. Today just kept getting better and better.
"No," he forced himself to reply.
"No. Now I get today isn't going the way you hoped, but if you keep pushing me, it's going to get a whole lot worse. Clear?"
"Yeah." He dropped his head, turning his eyes back on Sam before Rob could decide he was being defiant. Rob had drawn a line, and if he wanted to get out of here in one piece, he had to keep from crossing it.
Behind him, he heard Rob sorting through the kit, and a few minutes later, he dropped the bag on the floor next to him, in easy reach.
"You need anything that isn't in that bag, you ask for it. Got it?"
"Yeah," Iain replied, his voice heavy with resignation as the long day, the adrenaline, and the throbbing in his shoulder caught up with him all at once. He reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of gloves mechanically, then stared at them and tossed one back in. He had to move his free hand over to his tethered hand to awkwardly pull the glove on, but at least he'd be able to check Sam's wound without risking contaminating it—as well as he could one-handed, anyway.
He risked another glance over his shoulder to see Rob settling into the same armchair as before, his gun resting in his lap, and his eyes never leaving Iain.
"Try to get comfortable," he advised. "It's going to be a long few hours."
Iain blew out a breath—he was pretty sure comfortable wasn't going to be featuring in his immediate future—and turned his attention back to Sam, reaching up with his free hand to check his pulse. He frowned, moving his hand to Sam's forehead. Definitely warmer than he had been before.
"Dammit," he muttered, pulling off the jacket he'd draped over him earlier.
"What is it?" Rob demanded.
"Sam's warmer than I'd like," Iain said.
"Is it a problem?"
Iain hesitated, considering, and then shook his head. "I can monitor him for now. He's already had the first antibiotic dose, with any luck that'll help."
"You're zip tied to a sofa and you want to talk about luck?" Rob arched a brow.
Iain snorted. "Fair point."
He glanced up at the IV, and continued, "He's got plenty of fluids running. Keeping him uncovered should help. All we can do is wait."
"Hurry up and wait," Rob muttered to himself, leaning back in the armchair. Iain froze.
"You're ex-army," he said. Not a question: hurry up and wait was a military slogan. That, plus the way he held himself, held the weapon, gave Iain all the answers he needed.
Rob stiffened in the chair. "Keep your mind on Sam."
"Yeah," Iain muttered, deciding that was probably a smart call. Rob hadn't hesitated to shut him down in the car last time he'd asked about personal details—whatever Rob and Sam's history, Rob clearly didn't want Iain knowing it.
Sam stirred on the sofa, his eyes half opening, and then widening fully when he took in Iain's bound hand. He looked past him to Rob.
"What's…going on?"
"The medic was getting restless," Rob answered. "It's fine. Try to sleep."
Sam nodded unsteadily, then met Iain's eye. "Sorry 'bout this," he muttered.
"Don't apologise to him," Rob said sharply. "He's fine. He's here to do a job, that's it."
"Yeah, 'kay," Sam mumbled, his eyes trying to close again.
"Get some rest, mate," Iain said. "The doctor will be here soon."
'Soon' was a stretch, but Sam didn't need to hear that right now. It seemed to placate him, and it was only seconds until his eyes closed fully again. As Sam drifted back to sleep, Iain stretched up with his free hand, checking the IV drip rate again, watching the level, anything to keep his mind off the armed man sitting behind him, and the steadily increasing ache in his shoulder.
Three hours until the doctor came. Three hours to endure the discomfort and the threat of Rob's gun. Three hours.