Heat.
Mal came to a stop by the plastic chair he’d set his folded clothes on. A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with his heat.
Baylor was dead. Lowe was old and senile.
No one could hurt him anymore.
He wassafe.
If only he could convince his mind of the same.
“Mr. Collins?” Vincent asked. He tried his best not to sound alarmed, but Mal heard the thin notes of fear in his voice. “Is everything okay?”
No.
“Yes.” Mal took a breath as deep as his panic-gripped lungs would allow, then let it out. He was here for his blockers. As long as he focused on his goal, he could keep his mind in check.
Mal patted down his pockets to find his pills, retrieved them, and undid the plastic cling that secured them in place. With trembling fingers, he selected the first pill and swallowed it dry, then took the next the same way. The bitter taste was a reassurance. Soon enough, his heat would taper off and the panic would go away. The memories would recede back into the darkness of his mind where they belonged. He wouldn’t feel this way forever.
Everything was going to be okay.
With the chemical taste on his tongue keeping his thoughts grounded, Mal crossed the floor and climbed stiffly onto the examination table. These days, his muscles were tighter than they used to be—an artifact of age rather than a side-effect of his treatment—and his body was less willing to cooperate with his mind. After what Vincent had done to him the last time they were together, Mal was surprised he could walk at all.
After what Vincent had done.
Most of the time, panic attacks pushed Mal’s thoughts into a tailspin. The frantic tumble into the abyss of his mind scraped at the edges of his consciousness like nails down granite, chipping, bleeding, fraying beyond repair with no ground ever gained. But this time, as Mal’s panic set in, a word triggered a new reaction inside of him—one that jutted out and offered those battered nails something to grip.
Vincent.
Mal looked across the room to where Vincent stood. The concern on his face betrayed his inner emotion.
Vincent wasworriedabout him.
The panic didn’t abate—it wouldn’t until Mal found a safe space and worked himself down from what he was feeling—but he found reprieve in knowing someone else in the room cared about his wellbeing. All his life, he’d managed his symptoms alone. There’d been men who’d taken advantage of him when he was at his most vulnerable, men who’d sneered at him while he shut down, men who simply walked away, unable to handle him at his worst… but no one who’d ever looked at him like they were genuinely concerned for him. The fear in Vincent’s eyes wasn’t from discomfort or revulsion—it came from a place of distress.
“I’m okay,” Mal affirmed as he settled on the table. It wasn’t a total truth, but it wasn’t exactly a lie, either. “If you’re good to go, I am, too.”
“Of course.” Vincent looked at Mal skeptically, his eyes saying things his lips couldn’t. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the process by now. There’s a chance you’ll feel a slight pinch and a localized, subtle burning sensation. It won’t last long.”
The sound of Vincent’s voice increased the ledge Mal’s subconscious gripped onto. When he drew closer, his side brushing Mal’s knee, it expanded again. Mal was safe here. Vincent wasn’t going to hurt him. The horrors of his past were over. This was the start of a new beginning—the life he wanted, not the life the world assumed he should have.
“Are you ready?” Vincent asked. He’d pulled on his nitrile gloves and prepared the swab.
Despite the rushing of his pulse and the manic beating of his heart, Mal was.
Vincent disinfected an area on his thigh, then prepared the syringe and performed the injection. This time, Mal didn’t feel the pinch, nor did he feel the burn as the fluid was injected. If it hadn’t been for the small bead of blood that appeared on his thigh once the needle was removed, he would have thought the shot hadn’t been performed at all.
“Great job,” Vincent praised. He set the syringe down and bandaged the wound, his gloved fingers tender in their exploration of Mal’s body. More tender than they needed to be—the most kindness Vincent could show him without breaking the lie. “You’re good to go, Mr. Collins. Feel free to get dressed and leave at your leisure. We’ll see you tomorrow for your next injection. Should everything continue to go well, we’ll be set to collect your ova in three days’ time. Please continue to let us know if you experience any adverse reactions.”
“Of course.” Mal’s mouth was dry, and it took more out of him than he cared to admit to keep his voice level, but he persevered. The dizziness that had gripped him moments prior ebbed away, receding into his mind like the dark thoughts that had originally brought it on. Carefully, he lowered himself from the examination table and crossed the room.
Bare feet. Cold tile.
This time, he didn’t fear.
Vincent was there with him. There was someone else who’d chase away the demons if Mal couldn’t exorcise them himself.
Mal pulled the curtain, shutting out the rest of the world, and with shaking hands, shed his medical gown and started to dress. When he got back to his car, he’d take as long as he needed to sort his thoughts and talk himself down from his fear. Nothing lasted forever. Every moment of terror would come to an end eventually.
