Waiting (John/Karl chat)
Jul. 16th, 2005 10:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
horseboykarlÉomer: As soon as Théo is on the bike and away, I call for Karl, worried now that it is time for him to come back. I hope that we did not cause difficulties for him. Karl
Karl: Éomer sounds more anxious than usual when he calls me to come back. Karl, Eric was here last night. He saw us. I freeze at that news, my heart hammering. "What happened?"
He was spying on us, and Théo captured him. I curse and he hastens to reassure me. We did not harm him, but I introduced myself to him. I thought it would be all right, knowing that your aunt knows who I am. His mental tone is miserable and I swallow the shout that is gathering in my throat. "Was it?"
I do not know if he believed us, but he was calmer when he left here. I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. This really isn't his fault, he couldn't have known that I still haven't told my lover the truth. Much as I want to blame him for it, I can't.
He eases away and I grab my helmet and keys, running back to get my cell phone. I try to reach him, but he's not picking up. He's probably still at the store at this hour, knowing I wasn't supposed to get back until later. As I lean my bike into the curves, I try to think of a way to explain why I've been lying and to explain what the truth actually is, when I don't understand it half the time. Shit, he's had a whole day to think about it, to get madder at me.
I wish Éomer would have called me last night . . .
I pull up to the store and the hair on the back of my neck rises. The display window . . . it's trashed again. He must have redone it because it didn't look that way yesterday. There's some sort of backdrop painted like a theater set, but it and the manikins are smashed to bits. Why didn't the alarm go off?
Cautiously I approach the door, my stomach twisting when I see that it is ajar and there are some lights on inside. I push it the rest of the way open carefully. Fuck. I have nothing on me that will work as a weapon. I step inside slowly and my heart stops.
He's there, lying so still, and there's blood, lots of it. I can't move, can't breathe for a moment and then I kneel by his side frantically feeling for a pulse, almost screaming until I find it. Weak, too weak. My phone . . . emergency services.
While I wait, I try to tell myself that this wasn't my fault, that lying to him didn't lead to this, but it's fucking hard. The rescue unit and the police arrive at the same time. I watch while they work on him and then follow them to the hospital on my bike. I fill out the required forms in a daze, while they whisk him away. I call his family, finally reaching his brother. They're in Auckland, but they catching the first flight in the morning.
The doctors come racing out of the room he was in, wheeling his gurney.
"What's happening?" I shout to one of the nurses.
"We need to do emergency surgery on him. If you'll come with me, I can show you where to wait." Her voice is calm, professional. "Is he a friend of yours?"
"My boyfriend. And my business partner." I want to follow, but I need to make a phone call for myself first. I can't sit there and wait to find out if he lives or dies by myself. I dial Bernard's number, wanting his steady presence beside me like never before. I get his voice mail. I try again, knowing it's hopeless, but doing it anyway. Voice mail again. I want to throw the phone against the wall.
John: It's been a long day, one we've known was coming for too long now. Jacob has been deteriorating even before my last show at the Downstage ended. One of the finest actors in the company, his last few performances seemed even more spectacular because he knew he didn't have long. We're all gathered here tonight: his partner Alex, his family, all his friends from the theatre. And true to form, Jacob has cajoled each of us into sharing our memories of him. He says he wants he doesn't want to miss his own wake.
We're all playing along, occasionally even finding ourselves enjoying it before remembering why we're there, and then slipping discreetly out of the room for some time alone. It's my turn to escape now. I get a coffee from the dispenser and then sit down quietly with my Styrofoam cup in the waiting area. I hate hospitals. It's hard to believe it's been over a year since I was here myself. This smell, this sterility, the grim looks of everyone waiting makes it seem like it was yesterday. I blow on my boiled coffee to cool it, glancing around at the people around me. I'm about to venture a sip that surely would have burned my tongue when I'm saved by the sight of someone I haven't seen in many months. "Karl? Is that you mate?"
Karl: Bernard still isn't answering after several tries and I give it up as bordering on obsessive. I try to think who else to call. Not June. There's no way I'm dragging her into this mess in Wellie. Dave maybe, but I don't think I can deal with his fussing at the moment. Surprisingly enough, my next choice would be Éomer, he's seen comrades fall in battle, I have to think he'd understand this. But I dismiss that thought as quickly as it comes. I'm not calling horseboy for emotional support.
I raise my head from my worried contemplation of my phone at the sound of a voice calling my name.
"John. Hello. What are you doing here?" I need to get to that waiting room that the nurse told me about, where I can get the news of his condition, but I'm hoping that you're not a patient here too. I'm so tired of my friends getting hurt.
John: "Just visiting a friend. Waiting, really, for the end." I smile grimly and wonder if I should tell you for whom. I know you'd recognise Jacob's name, he's been an institution in national theatre for decades. And surely as a veteran in this business you can't be a stranger to this kind of vigilance, though thankfully they come less often these days than they did even ten years ago.
But you look a mess, so quickly I decide it's best not to go into any more details. "Are you okay?" I realise I don't know who you might be here for, this late at night. But whoever it is, they've got you worried, if the stress lining your face is any indication. I motion to the seat beside me. "Do you want to sit down? Or were you heading somewhere? I can walk with you, if you want the company."
Karl: I scrub my hand along my jeans, trying to wipe it clean, though I know I've washed it already. There was so much fucking blood.
"Eric. My boyfriend. Someone beat the shit out of him. He's in surgery. I'm supposed to be in some waiting room, they'll give me news when they have some. I don't remember where they said it was now." I hesitate, not wanting to ruin your evening, but shit, you've always been steady too, not that I can say that I know you as well as I do Bernard. But you are standing there patiently, your eyes kind, and I just don't think I can bear to hear bad news by myself.
"John, please, will you stay with me? It's bad, real bad."
John: One glance at the desperation in your eye convinces that I can do more good staying with you now than joining the crowd around Jacob's bed. I nod and motion for you to wait a minute while I go to the information desk. A minute late I rejoin you. "The waiting room for the ER is in the next wing. We're just supposed to follow the red lines on the floor. It shouldn't be too hard to find." I toss my coffee into a waiting bin as we start down a long hall. It's framed with windows on each side, the fluorescent lights fighting valiantly to keep the dark outside at bay. These are bad times. My throat tightens as I go through the roster of friends who've been hospitalized lately -- Orlando, Jacob, now your Eric -- but I force myself to summon up my voice. "I'm sorry about Eric, Karl. You weren't hurt, were you?" I glance at you, but aside from worry it doesn't look like you've been harmed. "Do you know what happened?"
Karl: My eyes lock onto the red lines as we walk, as though if I do everything exactly the way I'm supposed to, then I'll be rewarded and this will all come out all right. You've already helped me immensely just with your calm presence of mind. We reach the small room finally, there's ancient magazines and awkward chairs. We settle into them.
"I don't know. I think I told you about my agreement with Éomer?" You nod. "I had shifted out to give him time with Théodred . . . when I came back, Éomer said that Eric had caught them together . . . and asked questions. I went to find him . . . to explain. And found him . . . in his store. They examined him and then rushed him into surgery. I don't know who did it or what's wrong with him. Those fucking fanboys trashed his store once before, but I can't see that they'd have any reason to do it again."
John: "Those fanbo..." The same ones who attacked Hugo and me? I wonder if it could be them. They haven't been around for months. And you thought that meant they'd just leave? Give up once the shifts returned? Nobody even knows how they're connected to the shifts ... but they've sure got a serious Tolkien fetish, if those tattoos were anything to go by. "It wouldn't be them, would it? Why would they go after Eric?" A chill creeps up my spine as I imagine another wave of violence starting up. They attacked at random last time, but in a country this size it's hard to not hit someone related in some way to the movies. "You say he was attacked before?" But you don't answer, because your attention's drawn by a constable who's coming over to us, after a nurse points you out. "Mr. Urban? I'm PC Hulme. I was wondering if we could ask you some questions about Mr. Dalton."
Karl: I hope the plods have finally proved useful for something. "Did you find out who did this?"
"Not as such, no. The nurse said you are Mr. Dalton's business partner? What is the routine for locking the store up at night?"
I sigh heavily. Somehow, I'd rather not talk about my relationship with Eric to a bloody copper, but I suppose I can't avoid it. "I said that so she wouldn't make me leave. I own a forty percent interest in the store, but it's merely symbolic. The shares were a gift . . . I don't actually do anything. I've picked him up from there many times though. Once all the customers leave, he locks the front door, goes out the back and sets the alarm. Why didn't the alarm go off?"
"Because it doesn't appear to have been set tonight. Did you and he make arrangements to meet there this evening?"
"Not really, I wasn't sure whether he'd be there or at his house. I thought I'd check there first."
"Why were you trying to find him? And where had you been before?"
Oh, fuck, horseboy is another thing I'm definitely not talking about to the fucking constable.
"I had some . . . business that took me out of town for the day, we'd left it sort of loose as to when and where we'd meet up after I came back."
John: I can't tell whether the constable's trying to imply that something's fishy or whether he's just trying to figure out your relationship to Eric. But whatever the case, I can tell that you're getting flustered. Even if you have nothing to hide -- and I don't for an instant assume that you do, aside from the secret that we're all hiding here -- the nervousness in your voice makes you sound like something isn't quite right. PC Hulme's eyebrow twitches up as you talk evasively about your out-of-town business and he scribbles something into his little notepad. Before you can continue I put my hand on your shoulder to still you, and look up at the officer. "Constable, this has been a real shock for Karl. He hasn't even heard anything about his partner's status. I'm sure he'd be happy to answer your questions, but first can someone tell us how Eric's doing?"
PC Hulme looks a bit flummoxed for a second, and then mutters his apologies before going to speak to the nurse at the reception. As soon as he's gone I squeeze your shoulder in support. "It's okay, mate. They're just trying to find who did this. You haven't done anything wrong. Let's just find out how Eric is, okay?"
We don't have long to wait. The nurse from reception waves a doctor over and points us out. A second later he approaches us, looking back and forth from Karl to me, not sure which of us to address. "You're wanting to know about Eric Dalton?"
Karl: My heart is hammering and for some reason it feels as though the temperature in the place has dropped 10 degrees as I stand up to face the doctor. I grasp thankfully on the words you provided, for they cover so much.
"I'm his partner, doctor . . . ?"
"I'm Dr. Whaley, the ER attending. The surgeons are working on him still. I won't lie to you, it's quite serious. He has a variety of bleeds internally, which we are repairing. Broken ribs which were pressing on his lungs, making breathing difficult. They're fixed and he's easier now. He has a hairline fracture on the side of his skull, but it doesn't appear to be causing any brain trauma at the moment. We'll keep a careful eye on that, make sure it doesn't cause any brain swelling."
I would have collapsed if it hadn't been for your hand steady on my shoulder. I nod numbly, afraid to open my mouth because I want to scream and I'm afraid I'll never stop.
Dr. Whaley had been matter-of-fact and clinical while he recited the extent of Eric's injuries, but now his face softens slightly.
"He's strong and healthy from all indications. I won't give you false hope, but he has as good a chance as any to come out of this."
John: You don't say anything. You just look stunned, as I guess anyone would be hearing such grave news, so I address the doctor instead. "Thank you, Dr. Whaley. We'll be waiting here if you have any more news." He nods and turns to go, and I help you sit back down, squeezing your arm supportively. "It'll be okay, mate. They know what they're doing, and it sounds like they're pulling out all the stops. He's in good hands." I don't really know what to say, but I don't think it matters, as you don't look like you hear a word I say.
Could it really be the fanboys that did this to him? The ones who attacked Hugo and me? Memories of that night come flooding back to me, the pain of that cricket bat connecting with my head, Hugo's alter-ego appearing to defend us, staring into the dead eyes of my attacker. But they don't have any connection to Eric, except through you ... and I well know how hard it is to protect our loved ones from this secret we carry. If it is the fanboys you'll feel responsible, though there was absolutely nothing you could do to protect him. Still, I squeeze your arm again sympathetically.
I glance back up to see the constable coming towards us again. I give him an undisguised look of annoyance. "Officer, I'm sure Karl's happy to answer all your questions, but he's in a bit of shock now I think. Could this maybe wait a little while?"
Karl: I am so tired, I just want to curl up someplace on the floor and will this all away. But PC Hulme has a determined look on his face.
"Beg pardon, sir, but I don't have more questions for now. Just need to tell him some things and then maybe he willl help us."
"All right," I clear my throat, my voice sounding odd. "What is it?"
"We've talked to some of the other store owners on that part of Cuba Street. The lady who owns the record store next door says that Mr. Dalton changed his window display this morning to show several of the Elves, painted up the background like those Lord of the Rings movies. The other thing I found was that this isn't the first time his store
has been broken into and vandalized. Happened before . . . during the time we had all the trouble with the gangs."
My eyes are blank, and I'm desperately trying to keep every shred of emotion off of my face. "Yes?"
The constable looks a bit defiant. "I'm not saying you're involved, Mr. Urban, but you were in those movies. And you're evidently connected to Mr. Dalton . . . socially and in business. So . . . if there's some problem that's being caused by people with a connection to Professor Tolkien, perhaps you should tell the Wellington Police department what's going on."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say in the frostiest tone I can manage. "Now if you don't have any questions, my boyfriend is quite seriously hurt . . . "
He touches his hat briefly and turns away. I sag back into the chair, wondering why he didn't question me about my involvement in the Firkin being trashed back before Christmas.
John: Your attitude concerns me a little, enough so that I'm very glad when the constable decides not to press the issue and leaves us. To buy some time, I ask, "It's going to be a long night. Do you want some coffee?" You nod, and I go over to the vending machine and return with two styrofoam cups. I hand you one, looking at you carefully as you blow on the piping hot liquid. I feel terrible asking this right now, I feel like the officer still interrogating you, but there may be some way I can help. "Karl, is everything okay? Don't take this the wrong way, but you were acting a little defensive there, and I know you don't want to get called in to the station to explain what business you had while Éomer was in town. Is it just because of the shifts? Because if it is, mate, you've got to pull it together. You're an actor, and if ever a situation called for acting, this would be it."
Karl: "I don't fucking know how to do this, John!" I grit out. "I've never cared about anyone like I do him, how do I sit here when he's so hurt?"
I want to smash my fist through a wall, but I know that won't help the situation. I gulp the coffee, even though it sears my throat. I put the cup down and start pacing. "I should have been there, I should have fucking been there!"
Once again, I want to rail at Éomer . . . for existing, for not calling me, for thinking with his dick instead of his brain. Or Théodred, he’s the big fucking leader, he should have known better. "If that fucking horseboy would have just let me know that Eric had found them, maybe I could have prevented this, maybe he wouldn't have decided he needed a fucking Tolkien window display, maybe I could have stopped it. I should have told him . . . shouldn't have let him find out like that."
John: I definitely feel for you. Hell, I've asked "what if" questions similar to these many a time. But I've never had anyone I loved hurt because of this, and as I think of Sam, and of Jess and Daniel, I'm more grateful than I can say. But blaming yourself won't help anything. "Karl, it's not your fault." Why did I get you that coffee? Seems caffeine was the last thing you needed. I glance around to make sure none of the staff are listening to your ranting, but for the most part they seem occupied with their own tasks. "Karl, listen to me, you've really got to get a grip here. At this point there's nothing you can do for Eric but wait. You heard what the doctor said. He's strong and healthy, and they're doing all they can for him."
Your pacing is making me dizzy, so on your next pass I grab your wrist and make you stop and face me. "Karl, listen to me. The only thing you can do now is hold it together. You may have to make decisions for him. And when his family gets here, you're going to have to be strong for them. You probably do have some things to work out with Éomer, but that can wait. So can blaming yourself. Right now, you really need to calm down."
Karl: I breathe deeply, trying to find some sort of calm center and then I nod at you, acknowledging your points. I sit down and hang my head between my knees, letting the rush of blood to my brain give me something else to focus on.
Finally, I raise my head. "Okay, okay. You're right. Not about me, it's about him. His family is catching the first flight out of Auckland in the morning. I've met his brother Drew before, but none of the rest. They're going to think I'm a freak, you're right. Won't help him or them any if I'm carrying on like this. I'll save it for later when I can deal out some payback."
Because if those fucking fanboys are responsible . . . then I'm not relying on the bloody Wellington police to deal out justice to them.
John: "His family will be glad that you were here with him -- that he wasn't alone. I'm sure they'll be grateful for that." I'm glad to see you're calmer. I know you're under a lot of stress, but I have a feeling you've got a really long night ahead of you. Strike that: we've got a long night ahead of us. I don't want to leave you here alone, not the way you're feeling right now. At some point I'll have to make my way back to Jacob's room and see how things are there. But that can wait until I'm sure you're okay.
Dr. Whaley comes out again, looking haggard but not unhappy. You leap to your feet, and I stand beside you, ready for whatever the situation calls for. And then the doctor smiles. "I'm happy to say that Eric is doing fine. We've stopped all the bleeding, and we'll treat him with heavy doses of antibiotics to prevent infection. We still don't see any signs of brain trauma, but we'll need a full twenty-four hours with that. He's resting comfortably in post-op and as soon as the anesthesia wears off he'll be moved to a room in the ICU. We're going to keep an eye on him there for today, but if all goes as we expect we can move him to the regular ward tomorrow morning."
Karl At the doctor's words I feel like I can breathe again for the first time since I talked to Éomer. I grin at you and then turn to the doctor.
"When can I see him? His family will be here tomorrow morning, they'll want to see him too." But your words make me realize that it's tomorrow already. "This morning, I mean."
"We are monitoring the infection status, so while he's in ICU, I'm afraid you won't be able to come in, but you'll be able to look at him through the window. He'll be fairly strongly sedated against the pain, so he won't be aware of much. Once he's out of post-op, I'll have them come and get you."
"And he's totally out of danger?"
"Well, not as such, but we've upgraded his status from critical to serious." He walks away and I sit down again, still feeling much better than I did.
John: You look so relieved as your recline heavily in the chair, like a new man. Well, a new man who's been told his lover's in serious condition after being attacked by a bunch of rabid Tolkien nuts. All right, maybe you don't look that good. But certainly better.
I sit beside you, shifting a little to get comfortable on the hard plastic. "Well, that's wonderful news, isn't it?" You wouldn't have to say anything, your agreement is obvious from your face, but before you even get the chance another family rushes in, replaying the same scenario ... the same concern, confusion, helplessness. I squeeze your arm again. "He's going to be fine, Karl. You'll be able to see him soon."
Karl: I grip your hand, squeezing it hard, grateful beyond words that you’ve been here through these long, miserable hours with me. I had no idea that love was such a dicey business, how you can feel like you’re going to die yourself when someone you love is in danger.
When he’s back with me, safe and well, we’ll talk, I’ll tell him all of the things that I should have trusted him with a long time ago. I think I always knew he wouldn’t hurt me, but it’s so hard for me to trust people. This has really made me think, made me realize how much I have walled myself away from other people and I resolve to fix it. Sometimes life just sits up and slaps the shit out you until you pay attention. Well, I’m awake now.
“Yeah, John, I think you’re right, mate. He’s going to be all right.”
Karl: Éomer sounds more anxious than usual when he calls me to come back. Karl, Eric was here last night. He saw us. I freeze at that news, my heart hammering. "What happened?"
He was spying on us, and Théo captured him. I curse and he hastens to reassure me. We did not harm him, but I introduced myself to him. I thought it would be all right, knowing that your aunt knows who I am. His mental tone is miserable and I swallow the shout that is gathering in my throat. "Was it?"
I do not know if he believed us, but he was calmer when he left here. I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. This really isn't his fault, he couldn't have known that I still haven't told my lover the truth. Much as I want to blame him for it, I can't.
He eases away and I grab my helmet and keys, running back to get my cell phone. I try to reach him, but he's not picking up. He's probably still at the store at this hour, knowing I wasn't supposed to get back until later. As I lean my bike into the curves, I try to think of a way to explain why I've been lying and to explain what the truth actually is, when I don't understand it half the time. Shit, he's had a whole day to think about it, to get madder at me.
I wish Éomer would have called me last night . . .
I pull up to the store and the hair on the back of my neck rises. The display window . . . it's trashed again. He must have redone it because it didn't look that way yesterday. There's some sort of backdrop painted like a theater set, but it and the manikins are smashed to bits. Why didn't the alarm go off?
Cautiously I approach the door, my stomach twisting when I see that it is ajar and there are some lights on inside. I push it the rest of the way open carefully. Fuck. I have nothing on me that will work as a weapon. I step inside slowly and my heart stops.
He's there, lying so still, and there's blood, lots of it. I can't move, can't breathe for a moment and then I kneel by his side frantically feeling for a pulse, almost screaming until I find it. Weak, too weak. My phone . . . emergency services.
While I wait, I try to tell myself that this wasn't my fault, that lying to him didn't lead to this, but it's fucking hard. The rescue unit and the police arrive at the same time. I watch while they work on him and then follow them to the hospital on my bike. I fill out the required forms in a daze, while they whisk him away. I call his family, finally reaching his brother. They're in Auckland, but they catching the first flight in the morning.
The doctors come racing out of the room he was in, wheeling his gurney.
"What's happening?" I shout to one of the nurses.
"We need to do emergency surgery on him. If you'll come with me, I can show you where to wait." Her voice is calm, professional. "Is he a friend of yours?"
"My boyfriend. And my business partner." I want to follow, but I need to make a phone call for myself first. I can't sit there and wait to find out if he lives or dies by myself. I dial Bernard's number, wanting his steady presence beside me like never before. I get his voice mail. I try again, knowing it's hopeless, but doing it anyway. Voice mail again. I want to throw the phone against the wall.
John: It's been a long day, one we've known was coming for too long now. Jacob has been deteriorating even before my last show at the Downstage ended. One of the finest actors in the company, his last few performances seemed even more spectacular because he knew he didn't have long. We're all gathered here tonight: his partner Alex, his family, all his friends from the theatre. And true to form, Jacob has cajoled each of us into sharing our memories of him. He says he wants he doesn't want to miss his own wake.
We're all playing along, occasionally even finding ourselves enjoying it before remembering why we're there, and then slipping discreetly out of the room for some time alone. It's my turn to escape now. I get a coffee from the dispenser and then sit down quietly with my Styrofoam cup in the waiting area. I hate hospitals. It's hard to believe it's been over a year since I was here myself. This smell, this sterility, the grim looks of everyone waiting makes it seem like it was yesterday. I blow on my boiled coffee to cool it, glancing around at the people around me. I'm about to venture a sip that surely would have burned my tongue when I'm saved by the sight of someone I haven't seen in many months. "Karl? Is that you mate?"
Karl: Bernard still isn't answering after several tries and I give it up as bordering on obsessive. I try to think who else to call. Not June. There's no way I'm dragging her into this mess in Wellie. Dave maybe, but I don't think I can deal with his fussing at the moment. Surprisingly enough, my next choice would be Éomer, he's seen comrades fall in battle, I have to think he'd understand this. But I dismiss that thought as quickly as it comes. I'm not calling horseboy for emotional support.
I raise my head from my worried contemplation of my phone at the sound of a voice calling my name.
"John. Hello. What are you doing here?" I need to get to that waiting room that the nurse told me about, where I can get the news of his condition, but I'm hoping that you're not a patient here too. I'm so tired of my friends getting hurt.
John: "Just visiting a friend. Waiting, really, for the end." I smile grimly and wonder if I should tell you for whom. I know you'd recognise Jacob's name, he's been an institution in national theatre for decades. And surely as a veteran in this business you can't be a stranger to this kind of vigilance, though thankfully they come less often these days than they did even ten years ago.
But you look a mess, so quickly I decide it's best not to go into any more details. "Are you okay?" I realise I don't know who you might be here for, this late at night. But whoever it is, they've got you worried, if the stress lining your face is any indication. I motion to the seat beside me. "Do you want to sit down? Or were you heading somewhere? I can walk with you, if you want the company."
Karl: I scrub my hand along my jeans, trying to wipe it clean, though I know I've washed it already. There was so much fucking blood.
"Eric. My boyfriend. Someone beat the shit out of him. He's in surgery. I'm supposed to be in some waiting room, they'll give me news when they have some. I don't remember where they said it was now." I hesitate, not wanting to ruin your evening, but shit, you've always been steady too, not that I can say that I know you as well as I do Bernard. But you are standing there patiently, your eyes kind, and I just don't think I can bear to hear bad news by myself.
"John, please, will you stay with me? It's bad, real bad."
John: One glance at the desperation in your eye convinces that I can do more good staying with you now than joining the crowd around Jacob's bed. I nod and motion for you to wait a minute while I go to the information desk. A minute late I rejoin you. "The waiting room for the ER is in the next wing. We're just supposed to follow the red lines on the floor. It shouldn't be too hard to find." I toss my coffee into a waiting bin as we start down a long hall. It's framed with windows on each side, the fluorescent lights fighting valiantly to keep the dark outside at bay. These are bad times. My throat tightens as I go through the roster of friends who've been hospitalized lately -- Orlando, Jacob, now your Eric -- but I force myself to summon up my voice. "I'm sorry about Eric, Karl. You weren't hurt, were you?" I glance at you, but aside from worry it doesn't look like you've been harmed. "Do you know what happened?"
Karl: My eyes lock onto the red lines as we walk, as though if I do everything exactly the way I'm supposed to, then I'll be rewarded and this will all come out all right. You've already helped me immensely just with your calm presence of mind. We reach the small room finally, there's ancient magazines and awkward chairs. We settle into them.
"I don't know. I think I told you about my agreement with Éomer?" You nod. "I had shifted out to give him time with Théodred . . . when I came back, Éomer said that Eric had caught them together . . . and asked questions. I went to find him . . . to explain. And found him . . . in his store. They examined him and then rushed him into surgery. I don't know who did it or what's wrong with him. Those fucking fanboys trashed his store once before, but I can't see that they'd have any reason to do it again."
John: "Those fanbo..." The same ones who attacked Hugo and me? I wonder if it could be them. They haven't been around for months. And you thought that meant they'd just leave? Give up once the shifts returned? Nobody even knows how they're connected to the shifts ... but they've sure got a serious Tolkien fetish, if those tattoos were anything to go by. "It wouldn't be them, would it? Why would they go after Eric?" A chill creeps up my spine as I imagine another wave of violence starting up. They attacked at random last time, but in a country this size it's hard to not hit someone related in some way to the movies. "You say he was attacked before?" But you don't answer, because your attention's drawn by a constable who's coming over to us, after a nurse points you out. "Mr. Urban? I'm PC Hulme. I was wondering if we could ask you some questions about Mr. Dalton."
Karl: I hope the plods have finally proved useful for something. "Did you find out who did this?"
"Not as such, no. The nurse said you are Mr. Dalton's business partner? What is the routine for locking the store up at night?"
I sigh heavily. Somehow, I'd rather not talk about my relationship with Eric to a bloody copper, but I suppose I can't avoid it. "I said that so she wouldn't make me leave. I own a forty percent interest in the store, but it's merely symbolic. The shares were a gift . . . I don't actually do anything. I've picked him up from there many times though. Once all the customers leave, he locks the front door, goes out the back and sets the alarm. Why didn't the alarm go off?"
"Because it doesn't appear to have been set tonight. Did you and he make arrangements to meet there this evening?"
"Not really, I wasn't sure whether he'd be there or at his house. I thought I'd check there first."
"Why were you trying to find him? And where had you been before?"
Oh, fuck, horseboy is another thing I'm definitely not talking about to the fucking constable.
"I had some . . . business that took me out of town for the day, we'd left it sort of loose as to when and where we'd meet up after I came back."
John: I can't tell whether the constable's trying to imply that something's fishy or whether he's just trying to figure out your relationship to Eric. But whatever the case, I can tell that you're getting flustered. Even if you have nothing to hide -- and I don't for an instant assume that you do, aside from the secret that we're all hiding here -- the nervousness in your voice makes you sound like something isn't quite right. PC Hulme's eyebrow twitches up as you talk evasively about your out-of-town business and he scribbles something into his little notepad. Before you can continue I put my hand on your shoulder to still you, and look up at the officer. "Constable, this has been a real shock for Karl. He hasn't even heard anything about his partner's status. I'm sure he'd be happy to answer your questions, but first can someone tell us how Eric's doing?"
PC Hulme looks a bit flummoxed for a second, and then mutters his apologies before going to speak to the nurse at the reception. As soon as he's gone I squeeze your shoulder in support. "It's okay, mate. They're just trying to find who did this. You haven't done anything wrong. Let's just find out how Eric is, okay?"
We don't have long to wait. The nurse from reception waves a doctor over and points us out. A second later he approaches us, looking back and forth from Karl to me, not sure which of us to address. "You're wanting to know about Eric Dalton?"
Karl: My heart is hammering and for some reason it feels as though the temperature in the place has dropped 10 degrees as I stand up to face the doctor. I grasp thankfully on the words you provided, for they cover so much.
"I'm his partner, doctor . . . ?"
"I'm Dr. Whaley, the ER attending. The surgeons are working on him still. I won't lie to you, it's quite serious. He has a variety of bleeds internally, which we are repairing. Broken ribs which were pressing on his lungs, making breathing difficult. They're fixed and he's easier now. He has a hairline fracture on the side of his skull, but it doesn't appear to be causing any brain trauma at the moment. We'll keep a careful eye on that, make sure it doesn't cause any brain swelling."
I would have collapsed if it hadn't been for your hand steady on my shoulder. I nod numbly, afraid to open my mouth because I want to scream and I'm afraid I'll never stop.
Dr. Whaley had been matter-of-fact and clinical while he recited the extent of Eric's injuries, but now his face softens slightly.
"He's strong and healthy from all indications. I won't give you false hope, but he has as good a chance as any to come out of this."
John: You don't say anything. You just look stunned, as I guess anyone would be hearing such grave news, so I address the doctor instead. "Thank you, Dr. Whaley. We'll be waiting here if you have any more news." He nods and turns to go, and I help you sit back down, squeezing your arm supportively. "It'll be okay, mate. They know what they're doing, and it sounds like they're pulling out all the stops. He's in good hands." I don't really know what to say, but I don't think it matters, as you don't look like you hear a word I say.
Could it really be the fanboys that did this to him? The ones who attacked Hugo and me? Memories of that night come flooding back to me, the pain of that cricket bat connecting with my head, Hugo's alter-ego appearing to defend us, staring into the dead eyes of my attacker. But they don't have any connection to Eric, except through you ... and I well know how hard it is to protect our loved ones from this secret we carry. If it is the fanboys you'll feel responsible, though there was absolutely nothing you could do to protect him. Still, I squeeze your arm again sympathetically.
I glance back up to see the constable coming towards us again. I give him an undisguised look of annoyance. "Officer, I'm sure Karl's happy to answer all your questions, but he's in a bit of shock now I think. Could this maybe wait a little while?"
Karl: I am so tired, I just want to curl up someplace on the floor and will this all away. But PC Hulme has a determined look on his face.
"Beg pardon, sir, but I don't have more questions for now. Just need to tell him some things and then maybe he willl help us."
"All right," I clear my throat, my voice sounding odd. "What is it?"
"We've talked to some of the other store owners on that part of Cuba Street. The lady who owns the record store next door says that Mr. Dalton changed his window display this morning to show several of the Elves, painted up the background like those Lord of the Rings movies. The other thing I found was that this isn't the first time his store
has been broken into and vandalized. Happened before . . . during the time we had all the trouble with the gangs."
My eyes are blank, and I'm desperately trying to keep every shred of emotion off of my face. "Yes?"
The constable looks a bit defiant. "I'm not saying you're involved, Mr. Urban, but you were in those movies. And you're evidently connected to Mr. Dalton . . . socially and in business. So . . . if there's some problem that's being caused by people with a connection to Professor Tolkien, perhaps you should tell the Wellington Police department what's going on."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say in the frostiest tone I can manage. "Now if you don't have any questions, my boyfriend is quite seriously hurt . . . "
He touches his hat briefly and turns away. I sag back into the chair, wondering why he didn't question me about my involvement in the Firkin being trashed back before Christmas.
John: Your attitude concerns me a little, enough so that I'm very glad when the constable decides not to press the issue and leaves us. To buy some time, I ask, "It's going to be a long night. Do you want some coffee?" You nod, and I go over to the vending machine and return with two styrofoam cups. I hand you one, looking at you carefully as you blow on the piping hot liquid. I feel terrible asking this right now, I feel like the officer still interrogating you, but there may be some way I can help. "Karl, is everything okay? Don't take this the wrong way, but you were acting a little defensive there, and I know you don't want to get called in to the station to explain what business you had while Éomer was in town. Is it just because of the shifts? Because if it is, mate, you've got to pull it together. You're an actor, and if ever a situation called for acting, this would be it."
Karl: "I don't fucking know how to do this, John!" I grit out. "I've never cared about anyone like I do him, how do I sit here when he's so hurt?"
I want to smash my fist through a wall, but I know that won't help the situation. I gulp the coffee, even though it sears my throat. I put the cup down and start pacing. "I should have been there, I should have fucking been there!"
Once again, I want to rail at Éomer . . . for existing, for not calling me, for thinking with his dick instead of his brain. Or Théodred, he’s the big fucking leader, he should have known better. "If that fucking horseboy would have just let me know that Eric had found them, maybe I could have prevented this, maybe he wouldn't have decided he needed a fucking Tolkien window display, maybe I could have stopped it. I should have told him . . . shouldn't have let him find out like that."
John: I definitely feel for you. Hell, I've asked "what if" questions similar to these many a time. But I've never had anyone I loved hurt because of this, and as I think of Sam, and of Jess and Daniel, I'm more grateful than I can say. But blaming yourself won't help anything. "Karl, it's not your fault." Why did I get you that coffee? Seems caffeine was the last thing you needed. I glance around to make sure none of the staff are listening to your ranting, but for the most part they seem occupied with their own tasks. "Karl, listen to me, you've really got to get a grip here. At this point there's nothing you can do for Eric but wait. You heard what the doctor said. He's strong and healthy, and they're doing all they can for him."
Your pacing is making me dizzy, so on your next pass I grab your wrist and make you stop and face me. "Karl, listen to me. The only thing you can do now is hold it together. You may have to make decisions for him. And when his family gets here, you're going to have to be strong for them. You probably do have some things to work out with Éomer, but that can wait. So can blaming yourself. Right now, you really need to calm down."
Karl: I breathe deeply, trying to find some sort of calm center and then I nod at you, acknowledging your points. I sit down and hang my head between my knees, letting the rush of blood to my brain give me something else to focus on.
Finally, I raise my head. "Okay, okay. You're right. Not about me, it's about him. His family is catching the first flight out of Auckland in the morning. I've met his brother Drew before, but none of the rest. They're going to think I'm a freak, you're right. Won't help him or them any if I'm carrying on like this. I'll save it for later when I can deal out some payback."
Because if those fucking fanboys are responsible . . . then I'm not relying on the bloody Wellington police to deal out justice to them.
John: "His family will be glad that you were here with him -- that he wasn't alone. I'm sure they'll be grateful for that." I'm glad to see you're calmer. I know you're under a lot of stress, but I have a feeling you've got a really long night ahead of you. Strike that: we've got a long night ahead of us. I don't want to leave you here alone, not the way you're feeling right now. At some point I'll have to make my way back to Jacob's room and see how things are there. But that can wait until I'm sure you're okay.
Dr. Whaley comes out again, looking haggard but not unhappy. You leap to your feet, and I stand beside you, ready for whatever the situation calls for. And then the doctor smiles. "I'm happy to say that Eric is doing fine. We've stopped all the bleeding, and we'll treat him with heavy doses of antibiotics to prevent infection. We still don't see any signs of brain trauma, but we'll need a full twenty-four hours with that. He's resting comfortably in post-op and as soon as the anesthesia wears off he'll be moved to a room in the ICU. We're going to keep an eye on him there for today, but if all goes as we expect we can move him to the regular ward tomorrow morning."
Karl At the doctor's words I feel like I can breathe again for the first time since I talked to Éomer. I grin at you and then turn to the doctor.
"When can I see him? His family will be here tomorrow morning, they'll want to see him too." But your words make me realize that it's tomorrow already. "This morning, I mean."
"We are monitoring the infection status, so while he's in ICU, I'm afraid you won't be able to come in, but you'll be able to look at him through the window. He'll be fairly strongly sedated against the pain, so he won't be aware of much. Once he's out of post-op, I'll have them come and get you."
"And he's totally out of danger?"
"Well, not as such, but we've upgraded his status from critical to serious." He walks away and I sit down again, still feeling much better than I did.
John: You look so relieved as your recline heavily in the chair, like a new man. Well, a new man who's been told his lover's in serious condition after being attacked by a bunch of rabid Tolkien nuts. All right, maybe you don't look that good. But certainly better.
I sit beside you, shifting a little to get comfortable on the hard plastic. "Well, that's wonderful news, isn't it?" You wouldn't have to say anything, your agreement is obvious from your face, but before you even get the chance another family rushes in, replaying the same scenario ... the same concern, confusion, helplessness. I squeeze your arm again. "He's going to be fine, Karl. You'll be able to see him soon."
Karl: I grip your hand, squeezing it hard, grateful beyond words that you’ve been here through these long, miserable hours with me. I had no idea that love was such a dicey business, how you can feel like you’re going to die yourself when someone you love is in danger.
When he’s back with me, safe and well, we’ll talk, I’ll tell him all of the things that I should have trusted him with a long time ago. I think I always knew he wouldn’t hurt me, but it’s so hard for me to trust people. This has really made me think, made me realize how much I have walled myself away from other people and I resolve to fix it. Sometimes life just sits up and slaps the shit out you until you pay attention. Well, I’m awake now.
“Yeah, John, I think you’re right, mate. He’s going to be all right.”
