"He's seen people die before…" Danny muttered defensively.
"How many and under what circumstances? Was he touching them? Trying to keep them alive at the time?"
"I don't know."
"Even if he didn't know her all that well, this was intense for him. His hands were all over her. I'm pretty sure the way he sees it, he was the one blockade between her and oblivion. I watched it all play out. Even if in reality there's was nothing he could do, he probably thinks there was. He hasn't begun to process all the pieces yet," Jennifer said.
"Last night he was upset and exhausted but he was talking at least a little…"
"He was relieved you were back and the rest of it was just pretending. Danny, I've dealt with rape victims, people who were beaten nearly to death, people who've watched their loved ones murdered. The first couple of days, depending on the severity of injuries, they usually go blindly through the motions of normality or they shut down so hard that about the only thing they're still doing is breathing."
"But…" Danny looked absolutely helpless. "What do I do? What do
we
do?"
"Just be there. He's a lot like me. Hot tempered, passionate, capable of laser beam focus. Once his body catches up, I think he's going to come unglued. He may need some professional help. I assume he knows Stephen Benford pretty well?"
"Yeah, and Stephen's good at what he does. The two of them have spent a lot of time analyzing the whole trauma syndrome thing for psi. It's ironic I guess, that Peter's getting slammed face first into an experience that's making him go through it," Danny said. He crooked a finger at Jennifer and she walked across the kitchen to him. He folded his arms around her and hugged her tight to his body. "I need you. Peter needs you. God… Jen, please don't ever think you don't belong." He tipped her face up toward his and kissed her.
***
The conference room held eight people. Andrew Bottman, Director of Division P, looked calmly unhappy, but Danny could tell there was simmering anger beneath the façade. Danny sat beside Peter. Craig, Trevor and Sandra were all there, as well as the helicopter pilot and the ATF agent who had been sent with Isabelle on what was supposed to be transport to more specialized care.
There were rounds and rounds of commentary and discussion as to why the decision had been made to send Isabelle to Division P rather than attempting to bring P's medical specialists to her. It all seemed to stem from a batch of miscommunications along with a lack of understanding for Division P's SOP for seriously injured personnel. Isabelle had been taken to a trauma center straight from the injury in the field, which sounded like a sane and appropriate response. The hiccup was that a standard trauma center experience involved being touched and handled by possibly dozens of different and generally headblind individuals. Not all psi responded the same, but statistically the majority did very badly under such circumstances, just as Isabelle had.
Belatedly, somebody had bothered to read the details of the contract for Division P agents. The instructions were clear that, in the case of profound injury and unstable vitals, medical help was required from specially qualified personnel, especially if no one emotionally close to the injured agent was available. Somehow that had gotten mangled and translated into the necessity for taking the agent
to
the right people.
Granted, there was no guarantee that sending Peter or Trevor or any other psi to Atlanta would have resulted in a different outcome, but the general consensus was that it would have improved her chances. The ATF agent present was not the one who had made the decision; he was merely an agent who had been at the scene of the stabbing.
Danny had a suspicion the person who
had
made the decision was going to get chewed up and spit out by Bottman. That guy deserved it.
Peter had very little to say, just some bare facts presented from his view point. Nobody pushed for more; the healer looked about like death warmed over. Danny silently fretted. After the angry outburst and subsequent skirmish in the hallway, Peter had slept for another couple of hours. Jennifer had gently roused him and convinced him to eat a little before the meeting. The normal aftermath of doing a large amount of healing resulted in Peter eating like a ravenous fifteen year old in the middle of a growth spurt. Not today. That was one more thing to tie Danny's gut in a knot. It probably wasn't going to gain him any brownie points with Peter, but Danny was leaning heavily toward grabbing Trevor after the meeting to take a look at Peter.
"Stephen called me from Memphis to let me know that he and the local ATF director had broken the news to Isabelle's family. Her body will be released tomorrow to be sent home. Liberal leave is available for anyone who would like to attend the funeral," said Bottman.
The meeting broke up and people began to filter out of the room. Danny beckoned Trevor to hang around for a moment.
"Can you have a quick look at Peter?" Danny asked.
"He looks like crap, and I can't figure out if it's got physical components or just psychological ones."
Peter was still sitting at the conference table, staring at the paperwork in front of him, chin propped on folded hands. He looked vaguely startled when Trevor grabbed another chair and sat down beside him.
"Problems?" Peter asked.
"You tell me," replied Trevor. He wrapped one hand around Peter's wrist and laid the other against the side of Peter's neck. Peter gave him a stony glare. "You can wall me out of your head all you want, your body doesn't lie. I bet if I tested your glucose level you'd be damn near tanked again."
"Is he in danger?" asked Danny.
"No, but he's pushing in that direction. What part of
'no glycogen stores left' are you not getting, dude?
You're burning muscle," grumbled Trevor.
"Glycogen?" Danny said.
"It's more or less the reserve of energy that your liver keeps handy to even out your blood glucose level. He hasn't got any at the moment; it's one of those weird healer abnormalities. If you burn through it all, like he did the other night, it takes a while to replace it. In the meantime, the body acts like it's in starvation mode and starts burning up muscle protein to keep the brain happy and functioning. Did you even eat today?"
"Yes, I did. Will you stop acting like I'm invisible or deaf?" snapped Peter.
"Obviously not enough. I ought to make Danny help me drag you back to the infirmary and hook you up to an IV again. You should probably be on bed rest."
"I spent most of yesterday asleep."
"It's probably the only reason you're even walking and talking today," Trevor said.
"Do not tell me what to do."
"Peter, you may be my boss, but right now, you're also a patient. So stop behaving like an ass," replied Trevor.
"Let's go to the cafeteria. I need a cup of coffee and you need food, unless you'd rather punch me again,"
Danny said. Trevor gave Danny a questioning look.
Danny just shook his head; he didn't want to get into the whys at this point.
***
"I need a signature, since you're the chief medical resident," said Craig. He laid a clipboard on the table beside Peter. The attached sheet of paper read "Body Release Form" and had been duly filled out with all of Isabelle's information. All it needed was Peter's signature at the bottom. Craig offered him a pen. Muscle memory took over, otherwise Peter's hand would never have been able to execute the simple task.
Images began to flood Peter's head: Isabelle's face beneath the ambu-bag, the fluttering stuttering halt of her pulse, the way he'd tried to constrict blood flow to her limbs and force it back to her brain, the bright crackly energy he had flooded her synapses with that had faded to dimness then darkness. He was a healer, a healer who'd held other people on the correct side of life and death more than once. Why not her? What had he done wrong? Peter stood up from the table and began to walk in the direction of the residential wing. He didn't want to be in the cafeteria, with the bland normality of life clunking its way along.
Somewhere along the way, the walk turned into a stumbling run. He tripped and fell. When he tried to get up, his body refused. Hot scalding tears ran down his face as he curled forward, head on crossed arms, knees tucked under his body.
"No… No… please, God, no…" Peter whimpered before the sobs began to choke him. He was stuck in an endless loop of loss. It hurt to breathe, his pulse pounding viciously in his chest as he screamed inside his head. It should hurt even worse; the pain was tearing him into pieces and it wasn't enough. For some reason, there was warmth around his body and he didn't know why. He couldn't begin to fathom why there should be warmth, or love. The sobs kept coming, an endless fury of grief and anger that ripped and tore and trampled until gray exhaustion claimed him.
***
Danny had laid his lover on the bed between Jen and himself and held Peter while he sobbed and shook and rocked. Whatever little energy Peter had was burned away by the intensity of the emotional storm, and he lay so limply afterward that Danny had gone seeking Trevor.
Now, an hour later, Peter was still draped over Jennifer with an IV line in his hand, the tubing trailing up along her shoulder to join to the pole and bag of dextrose that hung there.
Trevor's instructions had gone something like, "Tie him to the bed if you have to, but make sure he rests.
Feed him, if he's up to it, and I'll be back in about four hours to change the IV. Call me if you think he's getting worse." Resting didn't seem to be an issue at this point; Peter had barely roused when Trevor put the IV line in.
"Is this any better than having him take a swing at me or walling us both out?" Danny asked softly. He was stretched out on the bed with one arm wound around Peter's torso and Jen's hips.
Jen considered the question for a moment. "Yes. It means some form of processing is going on. There's this Zen metaphor thing about having to empty the cup before you can fill it up again. He has to let some of the pain and guilt out before there's any sort of acceptance."
"I wish I understood the guilt part. He placed himself at serious risk for her. It's not like they were tight or anything. I mean, Peter always seems to know everybody at least a little bit, but they weren't exactly friends," Danny said.
"Try to think about it this way -- he's good at what he does, yeah?"
"Yes."
"And what he does is so out there off the scale impossible by most people's standards, he's viewed as the one who can fix anyone, heal anyone," Jen commented.
"I guess so."
"Think about the pressure. Peter's not particularly vain or selfish. He does this because he wants to be the one people believe in, and he cares deeply. It seems like he's feeling like the ultimate failure, thinking he's dropped the ball in the unfixable way. It doesn't matter that it's possible nobody short of a deity could have saved her. He thinks it was his job, his responsibility.
Add in the fact he's so far beyond exhaustion, and it's putting him in danger. It only compounds the stress."
"Do you think he's going to get through this?"
Danny's voice was thick with emotion.
"I don't know. I hope so. I think step one is fixing the physical part of the problem." Jennifer ran her fingertips through Peter's short hair. He was still a limp sleeping weight on her chest, but he had stirred enough to clench his hand lightly in the fabric of her shirt.
***
Danny,
Do not feel pressured to attend Isabelle's funeral. I am
far more concerned with Peter's health and welfare. He
is one of Division P's most precious resources, and I am
extremely loath to do anything that would endanger him
further.
Andrew
Precious resource? Okay, that made Peter sound like a commodity rather than a person, but Danny couldn't find too much fault in a boss who realized that protecting the living was more important than honoring the dead.
Danny was at the desk in his quarters, his chair set at an angle so he could see into the bedroom. Peter was awake after having slept another five hours. The IV line was still in his arm and surprisingly, he hadn't balked at its presence or the fact that Trevor had hung another bag of dextrose.
The TV was playing softly in the bedroom, and Danny could hear abrupt changes in tone as Peter was channel surfing. Jennifer had gone to her room to get her sketch pad and a box of the type of tea she preferred.
She'd probably be back shortly.
Danny walked into the bedroom and sat on the bed beside Peter. "You feel any better?" It was a relatively neutral question.
Peter nodded. Danny gingerly put his arm around his lover's shoulders, and was mildly surprised that Peter had no shields up. He could sense a heavy resigned feeling of guilt and an overlay of sadness. Peter twisted sideways and laid his head on Danny's chest, as his hand traced a random pattern along Danny's ribs. To Danny, this felt far closer to normal, much more like Peter's frequent need for contact.