You're Almost Dead Page 6

  Kurt stood up, pushing his chair aside as he tried to ignore the implication of that comment. "He should rest. I'm locking him in for the night."

  "Alright. Good man," Sheridan toasted his drink to him as he went off.

  "Eaton," Kurt said as he approached the table. The man in question didn't answer, drinking down another glass and wiping away the ensuing crimson trickle from his lips with the back of a hand. "Emery," Kurt tried, and this time he received a bleary response.

  "Oh. Yes?" he squinted up at Kurt.

  "Come along. You're going to lie down now."

  Emery tried and failed several times to grasp another roll of clean gauze in front of him before finally seizing it, staggering to his feet to follow Kurt towards the stairs. It was a slow, unsteady climb up the steps to the top floor, one that involved a lot of stops along the way and eventually ended in Kurt having to drag him. It was dark upstairs and Kurt went ahead to turn on a lamp. As he did so, Emery followed him into the room and collapsed onto the bed.

  Kurt looked at him lying there for a moment before stepping into the attached bathroom and filling a glass full of water, coming back and crouching down to hold it in front of Emery's face. "Drink this."

  "Thanks…" he muttered, pushing himself up just enough to take it. "Did…I do alright…d'you think?"

  Kurt leaned back on his heels and debated whether or not to encourage him. "What are you talking about?"

  Emery struggled to sit up a little more. "What I mean is…you're not going to s-send me back now, are you?"

  Kurt shook his head in disbelief. "Why in the hell are you so determined not to go home?"

  Emery said nothing. He looked as though he hadn't heard the question, eyes glazed over as he stared at the wall over Kurt's shoulder. Kurt sighed and stood up, turning to find a blanket to throw over him in the small room. He wasn't sure what the old shop downstairs was used for last, but at least the living area above retained some useful amenities. He made it over to the closet when Emery suddenly decided to answer him.

  "I was fifteen when he first forced himself on me."

  Kurt stopped dead in his tracks, turning slightly. "What?"

  Emery was back to lying on his side now, clutching the glass upright with both hands and rubbing the rim with a thumb. He shook his head as though he suddenly remembered what he was talking about. "Oh he…caught me. With some queer mags, you know. That's how he found…out about me. And he liked that. He wanted to 'show me how it was done', he said…"

  Kurt still stood frozen in place, creasing his brow and attempting to process that. "Your stepfather?"

  "Yes. See he wants me to be both his son and 'is lover but I don'want…" Emery trailed off for a minute, prodding his jaw painfully with his fingers. "…won't leave me be…can't get away…not until now."

  Kurt was blindsided. This was truly the last thing he expected to hear and he felt overloaded, overwrought, and several kinds of disgusted from this night. He scrubbed his hands over his face and went back to Emery, sitting down and lifting the younger man's head up to tilt the water towards him. "Here. Drink."

  Emery did as instructed with some difficulty and then lay back down on his side, eyes closing as blood leaked from the corner of his mouth onto the bedspread.

  "Emery, your mouth. You need to use some of the gauze."

  Emery's eyes opened again. He looked up at Kurt with a strange gaze that seemed so much wearier than any man his age had a right to look. It was weak and teetering on the edge of defeat and suddenly all of Kurt's self-assurance that Emery was some cool, calculating snake in the grass dissolved into nothing. This wasn't his enemy. This was his victim. Kurt felt an inexplicably horrid stab of guilt. He took a corner of the gauze and wiped away the draining blood from Emery's lip.

  "What's your name?" Emery asked.

  He stared down at him hesitantly, voice un-barbed for once when he spoke. "…Kurt."

  Emery offered a sweet, albeit drunken, smile. "That's very German."

  "I suppose it is," Kurt said quietly. He set the water on the nightstand next to the bed and watched as Emery's eyes closed again.

  "Kurt?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry. About the…mess."

  "Don't apologize," Kurt ordered. He sat there for a long moment, a hand unconsciously rubbing his bruised arm from where Emery had grabbed him and his mind blank. Emery was sleeping heavily after a few minutes and Kurt had an internal deliberation as to whether or not he should bother cuffing him again. In the end he decided it was better safe than sorry, so he locked Emery's right hand to the bedframe and stood up.

  He hadn't felt so drained in a very long time. It took an unusual amount of willpower to drag himself off to his room and lie down, closing his eyes and trying to banish the events of the day from his mind as permanently as possible. His last act before he drifted off was to vow contritely to back Scott in an argument next time. He would not do this again.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was a familiar dream. He sat in a wooden chair next to the hallway listening to the grandfather clock tick, knowing that these were the last minutes he would ever spend safe. Voices echoed down the corridor towards him as if through a filter; he spoke the language but could not understand the words. Two minutes after the clock struck noon, a tall, dark figure swept like a shadow through the room past him and out into the gray afternoon rain. He watched this figure disappear and then a pale, wrinkled hand was cupping his chin.

  Her face was warm and sweet, sad and unreal. He could only make it out briefly before it blurred and he was pulled into her floral patterned dress. She smelled like cedar, like sage, and like death. His chin was forcibly tilted up to look at her face but he could only see the bright blue of her eyes.

  "Du musst tapfer sein, Liebchen."

  Kurt's eyes slowly opened to see his hand resting on the bed in front of his face, streaked with dried blood. He sat up quickly. Everything came back to him in a pervasive jumble and he sighed.

  The first thing he did after washing up was to check on Emery. Upon unlocking the door and laying eyes on him, he immediately regretted cuffing him to the bed. Emery had curled as close to his bound arm as he could in his sleep and had unknowingly struggled against it. His wrist was cut up and badly bruised, a thin line of blood running down his arm to join a large pool of it that stained the sheets under his head from his mouth.

  Kurt went over and sat down as he dug the handcuff key out of his pocket, scanning Emery's shallow breathing and sweat-slicked skin despite the cool air. He unlocked the cuff and took the arm in his hand as gingerly as he could to prevent further injury. This didn't look good. Emery was going to be very much worse for wear when he came to. He laid a hand over the sleeping man's head to gauge his temperature and received a broken groan in response.

  "Lie still," Kurt said softly.

  Emery covered his face with his arms and clutched at his hair in pain, trying to block out all stimuli. Kurt put a hand on his shoulder for a minute before leaving the room and heading downstairs.

  "You slept in," Sheridan commented from where he sat. "How's the kid?"

  "Bad," Kurt muttered as he wandered over to the cabinet where they'd stashed their supplies and dug around for the painkillers.

  "How bad?" Scott asked immediately. "I mean, he'll—he'll live, right?"

  Kurt glanced at him and nodded.

  "So he's pretty fucked up, huh? Go figure," Sheridan huffed. He tapped his foot for a minute, then looked back to Kurt. "How bad does he look, exactly?"

  Kurt found the bottle and turned around to face them. "As bad as anyone who's just woken up hungover with a missing tooth—why?"

  "Bring him downstairs."

  "I doubt he can walk."

  "So drag him. This is perfect. Let's have Eaton take a look at what setting his own pace has done to his precious little heir and see if that inspires him." Sheridan gestured towards the computer. When he caught Kurt and Scott's identical look of skepticism he held up his
hands in defense. "What? He's a great actor, he'll pull it off."

  Kurt was well aware he wouldn't win this one if he argued. "Fine," he clipped. He took his time plodding back up the stairs with acetaminophen in hand. Belatedly he realized that he had left the door open and Emery unrestrained, but it didn't make a difference. The man in question was still in the same position he'd left him in. Kurt leaned down close, gently gripping a hand at the back of his neck. "Emery, sit up." Emery didn't seem capable of responding. He stirred aimlessly at the sound of a voice, but was too disoriented to obey. Kurt pushed him slightly so that he rolled onto his back and looked with unease at the blood smearing the right half of his face. He patted his other cheek. "Come on then."

  Emery's eyes fluttered open, dizzy and pained. "Huh…?"

  "Here, have these," Kurt placed four painkillers into Emery's palm and closed his fingers over them, handing over the glass of water.

  Emery lifted himself up on his elbows, looking at Kurt like he didn't really think he was there. He managed to take the pills, but shortly after dropped the half full glass to the floor and looked ready to pass out again.

  The glass didn't break and Kurt didn't bother picking it up. "Emery, I'm…sorry, but Sheridan wants you to put on a show. He thinks the state of you might convince Hunter to hurry it along. Are you up to it?"

  For a moment he was sure his question didn't register, but then Emery was moving lethargically as if to get up. "…Yeah…" He held a hand to his face with a wince at the sharp sting of speech against his wound.

  "Are you sure? You don't look…" Kurt stopped himself, rubbing his forehead with a hand and nodding. "I'll help you. Come on."

  Emery held up an arm obediently and Kurt pulled it over his shoulder, hauling him to his feet and leading him downstairs to the figurative stage.

  "Scott, is that thing ready?" Sheridan was asking.

  Scott sat at the computer and issued a thumbs up. He then turned around and caught sight of Emery, his face falling.

  "Ho, he really does look like shit," Sheridan admitted, leaning down to catch a look at Emery's face where he sagged against Kurt. "Ah, well. The show must go on, right?"

  Emery lifted his head to look at him with glassy eyes.

  Kurt had reservations. Emery was shaking badly against him, unable to stand up straight and was in no state to put on an act. He was shocked a moment later when Emery stumbled into a chair of his own accord, sticking two fingers in his mouth and purposely agitating the wound in his jaw with a muffled cry. He quickly removed his hand and spat a new flow of blood down the front of himself and let the tears in his eyes overflow. He panted in anguish, signaling Sheridan with a hand that he was ready.

  "You get ahold of him yet?" Sheridan asked Scott.

  The latter nodded sharply. "He's calling in now."

  "Alright, masks on," Sheridan ordered.

  Scott accepted the incoming call and once again Hunter Eaton's image appeared on the laptop screen, sitting at his desk with a nervous expression. "Hello? This is Hunter Eaton."

  "Yeah, we can see you," Sheridan pointed out. "And you can see us. Am I right?"

  Hunter swallowed. "Yes. Where is Emery? Is he alright? What is this about?"

  Kurt glanced at Emery for a reaction, but saw none. After what he had drunkenly admitted the previous night, this worried father bit very much rubbed Kurt the wrong way.

  "It's about us having a change of heart," Sheridan said with mock sentiment, a hand over his chest. "It occurred to me that as of yet, you're paying for nothing. I mean you won't get your kid back until we're paid in full. That kinda leaves you high and dry in the meantime, doesn't it?"

  Hunter hesitated in confusion. "It does a bit, yes."

  "I thought so. So ya see," Sheridan dug into his pocket for something. "Since you've already paid for part of him, I figured that's what you should get."

  Hunter paled as he saw Sheridan produce the blood encrusted tooth, mouth hanging open slightly. "Dear god. Tell me you didn't—"

  "Didn't what? Pull a tooth out of your kid's skull with a pair of rusty pliers? Yeah, well, we wanna be fair, Eaton! I think five million pounds buys at least one of these suckers, don't you? And so far you've given us twenty, so that's three more to go. Bring him over."

  Sterling did as he was indicated, once more jerking Emery up by the arm and shoving him into the camera's view. He decided to add his own flare this time, however, and slugged Emery in the gut to send him crumpling to the ground with a yelp of surprise. Kurt's jaw clenched and he lurched forward, but he held himself back.

  "Emery!" Hunter cried. "What the hell have you done to him!?"

  "I thought that was sort of obvious," Sheridan dangled the tooth in front of him.

  "You swore you wouldn't hurt him! I've done everything you've asked!"

  "You're fucking stringing us along," Sheridan said, tone suddenly severe. "If you wanna buy him in pieces that's your prerogative, but I'm gettin' tired of waiting. Get your shit together, Eaton, or he dies."

  "No, please," Hunter gasped. "Oh god, Emery. Look at you…"

  Emery spat another mouthful of blood and shivered. "They mean it…" he croaked. "I think…I think I'm going to die…oh…"

  "No, don't say that. I won't let that happen."

  "I…" Emery paused, looking like he was going to be sick before he closed his eyes and continued. "…love you, Hunter. I'm sorry. About…everything…"

  "Stop it, just stop," Hunter demanded, striking the desk in front of him. "I'll do what you want! I'll get fifty million by next week. I swear it! I don't know how, but I'll do it. I'll bloody well pay you double what you want, but don't touch him again you vicious bastards!"

  Sheridan leaned forward. "That's good, Eaton. Because if we have to have another one of these little talks, it'll be too fucking late. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes," Hunter agreed, tears beginning to fall down his cheeks. "Don't hurt him. I'd do anything for him. Anything. Please just give me a little more time, I'm begging you."

  "Sure thing. But that's all you've got." Sheridan gave a sarcastic wave and terminated the connection. "Nice job, kid!" he praised as he turned towards the man on the floor. "You really fucking had him—"

  Sheridan was cut off as Emery heaved, vomiting a great gush of whiskey and blood onto the floor where it splattered dangerously close to Sheridan's shoes.

  "Ah, Christ…" Sheridan said in annoyance, jumping back.

  "Alright, that's enough," Kurt snapped as he went over, ripping off his mask and crouching down to snatch Emery by the arms so that he didn't pass out in his own vomit. "He's just about had it. No more of this. If he doesn't stop bleeding soon he'll need a fucking hospital."

  This seemed to get Sheridan's attention. He knew that this was not an option. "Okay, okay, so take him. We're done here."

  Scott quickly came to offer his aid, taking the arm of a now unconscious Emery and lifting him back up. "We've gotta clean his mouth. Get some saltwater ready—puke in a wound is a pretty sure bet for an infection."

  Kurt nodded, putting Emery's other arm around his neck and helping Scott to carry him back upstairs.

  "And come clean this shit up when you're done," Sheridan called after them, shaking one of his legs to fleck the fluids off of his shoe.

  * * *

  For the next twenty-four hours, Emery saw little of the waking world. Most of what he registered was muffled voices, the taste of blood, and the most incredible, excruciating headache of his life. He was well aware that this process would hurt when he was stupid enough to suggest it, but great Christ. He would've taken a bullet over this. He contemplated this as he came to, his body at last able to sleep no more. God how he wished he hadn't drank so much.

  Emery groaned, rubbing his aching jaw and rolling over to his side. He pulled his arm back a moment later in confusion and saw the slightly bloody bandages around his wrist. Don't remember that…he thought in concern. With great effort he pushed himself up and carefully ran his to
ngue along his missing tooth. The bleeding had slowed. The remnants of it had been cleaned from his face—even the sheets beneath him were new. Someone had patched him up nicely. Probably Kurt.

  Kurt? Emery blinked, momentarily lost as to where that name came from. He meant Gabler. But no, the other night…

  He looked up as his door opened and the man himself entered with something at his side in his hand. "You're awake."

  "Apparently," Emery murmured, rubbing his eye with the heel of a palm. "Doesn't really feel like it though…"

  Kurt walked over and handed him a mug with some sort of steaming red contents. Soup. He reeled back with a shake of his head but Kurt insisted. "You'll just get sicker until you eat something."

  Emery sighed, taking the cup and smiling unenthusiastically. "Cheers."

  "Take it with these," Kurt set a handful of pills into his hand and he was in too much pain to question it, so he swallowed them. "Can I see your arm?"

  Emery tried not to gag at the tart flavor of tomato and set the mug down, wiping his mouth. "Hm? Oh, uh, sure. I suppose." He held out his bandaged arm and watched as Kurt knelt down and began unwrapping the injury. It was odd that he'd even asked. His whole demeanor seemed unusually considerate. "What…happened to me?"

  Kurt glanced up at him and continued to discard the sullied bandages. "You fought the handcuffs in your sleep. I should've realized."

  Emery looked down at the ugly marks as they were revealed to him. Either they didn't hurt or his brain was just too overwhelmed by his headache to register them. They were quickly covered again by a clean wrap and he pulled his arm back. "So did it work, then? My memory's a bit fuzzy."

  "Yes," Kurt replied. He looked like he wanted to say more, but nothing else followed.

  Emery rubbed his newly bandaged arm and sighed in relief. "Good. That's not something I'd like to do again. Um, thank you, by the way."