“Hey, Rod,” Jimmy soothed, the tarp crinkling beneath him as he crawled up on the bed.
“Hey, Jimmy,” Cold murmured. His eyes closed. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s okay. Really.” Petting Cold’s brow, he tried to smile and ignore the blood that had soaked his shirt and pants. He could see it oozing through the makeshift bandage that had been applied to Cold’s side, and he demanded sharply, “Where is the doctor?”
“Right here,” a firm, smooth voice called out, heels clicking loudly on the wooden floors as she approached. She was a thin woman with a shock of peroxide blonde hair. Jimmy would have almost mistaken her for frail, but her expression told a completely different story. Despite her petite frame, her entire energy screamed of danger and strength as she quickly gloved up and sat on the edge of the bed next to Cold.
A young woman accompanied her, bright and quick, carrying a large surgeon’s bag and starting to pull out a plethora of equipment.
“Abigail,” the doctor ordered, “start two IVs. I want a saline drip and start pushing morphine stat. Mr. Legrand is not going to like what we’re about to do.”
“He’s not?” Cold mumbled, gritting his teeth.
“Get a blood pack going, too,” she continued, ignoring him. “He’s already lost too much.”
Jimmy watched the doctor cut Cold’s shirt and jacket out of the way, tearing the fabric until his entire torso was bare. He tried not to look, he really did, but he had been aching to get a glimpse of Cold’s body.
He was softer than Jimmy had imagined, but there was still firm muscle aplenty despite the lack of definition he had always fantasized about. There was a light misting of hair gracing his pecs that grew a little thicker as it traveled down his stomach and below. A faint hint of silver shimmered even there, and when the circumstances were different, Jimmy was going take the time to properly appreciate how sexy he thought it was.
But the scars, the tapestry of agony weaved from a lifetime of abuse, they seemed more horrifying than the two bullet wounds currently spouting blood from Cold’s side. There were dozens, all in varying shapes and sizes, too many to count, though there were a definite few that screamed for attention.
The most obvious was one Jimmy had seen before, the jagged wreck of tissue that had claimed Cold’s right nipple. There was another nightmare of marbled dark tissue streaking across the left side of his stomach several inches over.
Despite all the damage, Jimmy still thought Cold was breathtaking.
“I’m Dr. Madeline Queen, who are you?” the doctor asked briskly, staring Jimmy down.
“Jimmy,” he croaked in response, still petting Cold’s forehead.
“He’s with Cold,” Jules grunted, as if to vouch for his presence.
Queen looked less than impressed, saying shortly, “Remain up there and out of my way, and you can stay. Interfere at all, and I’ll drag you out myself, got it?”
“Got it,” Jimmy replied quietly.
Her gloved fingers pressed around the wounds, prompting Cold to gasp and moan. “Bullets only grazed him. Lucky; just an inch more to the right and they would have hit his liver,” she mused. “We have to get this bleeding under control.”
Just an inch, she’d said, those words hitting Jimmy hard in the gut. They were the words his father always said to comfort him when he visited him in prison—just an inch of glass separated them, just an inch. Jimmy had never expected those words to carry such added weight. Cold could have died. After all they had built together, an inch would have ended it.
Abigail had already gotten the two IVs going, one in Cold’s arm and the other in the back of his hand. Blood and clear fluid pumped away, and she drew up a syringe of medication to push into the line.
“Ready, Doctor,” she said tensely.
“Go ahead, right now,” Queen barked. “And give me two sets of hemostats and suture.”
Abigail scrambled to supply the requested tools, and Jimmy had to look away while she worked. He kept his eyes focused on Cold’s face, watching him slip in and out of consciousness, grunting in pain as Queen sewed up his wounds. Jimmy kept dabbing his brow, trying to stay strong, trying not to cry when Cold finally passed out.
The Gentlemen were all here now, lining the doorway like mourners at a funeral, all watching silently as Queen worked to save their leader. Rowena was a softly blubbering mess, Jules’ strong arms holding her tight and murmuring something in her ear to comfort her. Jerry had his hands clasped together, praying softly in French. Lorre looked grim, and Tamerlane hugged him close. Pym kept wiping his eyes and adjusting his glasses, prompting Thirdsies to lean affectionately against his shoulder. Valdemar had grown tired of standing and had flopped onto the floor, holding his face in his hands.
The fear was thick, making the air hard to breathe. Jimmy couldn’t take it any longer, finally letting himself cry, bowing his head and whispering in Cold’s ear, “You can’t leave. You can’t. They all need you. I need you... please. I need you so much. I love you, Rod.”
“Jimmy, right?” Queen asked quickly.
“Yes?”
“Please keep your sweet little love confessions to yourself right now,” she sighed in annoyance. “I need to concentrate.”
“Sorry,” Jimmy said with a grimace, falling silent.
