[FIC] HOSTAGE: CONCLUSION

[makingamochrie.livejournal.com]

Finally!  This puppy is DONE!  Thanks to all who supported this story through their continued feedback.  You guys are totally rocktastic!

Title: Hostage 
Part CONCLUSION
Pairing: Ryan/Colin
Rating:  PG, if that.

“You guys should go down to the cafeteria while you’re waiting.  The food’s not great, but it’s edible, and you both look like you could use some.”  Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small pager and slides it across the table to Greg.  “When this goes off, come on back up here and I’ll tell you how everything went, ok?”

 

“Thanks, Doc.  You…can’t…I…just…thanks.”

 

Smiling, the surgeon stands and claps Greg lightly on the shoulder.  Then he moves around him to stop before the still standing Ryan.  “Mr. Stiles?” he says, careful not to touch the blank-faced man.  “I’m going to take very good care of Mr. Mochrie.  You have my word on that.”

 

Like a child coming up from a long, hard sleep, Ryan blinks, slowly, several times.  “Th—”  Clearing his throat, he tries again.  “Thank you.”

 

“You’re more than welcome, sir.”  A final nod to them both, and the surgeon leaves, heading for the OR and Colin.

 

Greg stands as well, and approaches Ryan, stopping a half-foot away.  “Hey, Ry,” he says softly, a bit uncertainly.  “You doin’ a little better?”

 

Ryan looks around slowly, as if wondering where he is and how he’s gotten there.  “Uh…yeah, I guess,” he replies finally, lifting a hand to rub it at the back of his neck. 

 

“Fuck of a day.”

 

Ryan grunts, then carefully places the dregs of his coffee on the small table.  “Where’s everyone else?”

 

“They’ll be here.  Wayne’s probably here already, getting checked over, and the rest of them probably are finishing up their statements to the cops.  I bet they get here before Colin’s out of surgery.”  Ryan’s nodding absently, and Greg is worried he’ll start to slip away again.  “You want to go get something to eat?  I’ve got this,” he says, holding up the beeper, “for when, you know, they’re done.”

 

After a long moment, Ryan nods.  He’s not hungry in the least, and even if he was, the molten ball sitting in his stomach wouldn’t let any food down there anyway.  But Greg looks pale and wan, and is probably damn hungry to boot.

 

“Great!  Let’s go!”

 

They wind up staying for almost two hours as the others gradually wander in, stumbling and numb like shellshocked troops returning from overseas.  Wayne’s injury turned out to be minor; just a treat and release from the ER.  The rest of them haven’t even bothered to change their clothes, though they all dig into what passes for food at the hospital with a will.  No one talks much; they’re all too busy processing and Drew figures there’s gonna be a boom in the therapy market for some months to come.

 

The piercing noise of the beeper shatters their silent knot, and every face pales, particularly Ryan, who looks as if he might not even have enough strength to stand, but somehow does.  He and Greg pelt down the hallway for the elevator, the others trailing in their wake like ducks following their mother.  The others miss the first elevator, but Greg’s already given them directions, so they take the second and arrive less than fifteen seconds behind the first two.

 

The doctor, in different scrubs now, a pristine white labcoat slung over them, leans against one wall, looking tired but content.

 

“Did everything….?”  Ryan’s voice fades to nothing, though his leg is pogoing a mile a minute as if to make up for it.

 

“Went just fine,” the surgeon replies, smiling.  “We had to remove his spleen, but that was expected.  His liver was much less damaged than we’d feared.  I removed a tiny bit of it, but it won’t give him any problems.  We patched up his lung without any difficulty, and didn’t find anything else unexpected.  He’s still getting blood, and will be for the next day or so, and we’re keeping him pretty heavily sedated and on the ventilator until his lungs and liver have a chance to heal a little, but other than that, I’m really pleased with the way things went, and barring anything unforeseen, I see no reason why he won’t go on to have a full recovery.  The next couple of days will pretty much set the tone for that.”

 

Drew and Greg move just quickly enough to prevent Ryan from hitting the floor as his knees buckle.  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he says irritably, as if he hadn’t just nearly fainted, and swats their arms away, his face tinged with pink.  “Can I see him?”

 

“He’s probably just getting into his room now, in the Trauma ICU.  Only two visitors at a time, but the rest of you can wait here and go in when someone else comes out, okay?”

 

“Sounds good,” Drew says.

 

“Follow me, then.”

 

Ryan grabs Greg’s hand in a tight, sweaty grip and all but pulls the smaller man behind him as he follows the surgeon through the pneumatic doors and into the whooshing, beeping world of the Trauma ICU. 

 

The nursing station is in the middle, and the rooms are arranged like spokes on a wagon wheel.  The doctor leads them to the third room to the left of the door.  Ryan hesitates, but Greg’s hand on his lower back eases him over the threshold and into a room that smells chiefly of alcohol and latex powder. 

 

Colin is in the exact center of a narrow bed and, surprisingly, he actually looks better than he did when last they saw him.  Yes, he’s hooked up to monitors that beep and boop away, and yes, he’s got an endotracheal tube down his throat connected to a ventilator that hisses and whooshes as it breathes for him, and yes his chest and belly are shaved and an odd color yellow from the betadine wipe—at least where they aren’t white from the bandages covering his wounds, but his cheeks are flushed a rosy pink, and for them, that makes all the difference in the world.

 

The nurse introduces herself and explains the equipment and the care he’ll be receiving, answering questions with a care and grace that leave Ryan and Greg feeling more than comfortable with her presence at Colin’s bedside. 

 

“He can hear you if you talk to him,” she says, pushing over a chair for Ryan to sit in.  “He was responsive in the Recovery Room, but I’ve just given him a big dose of Morphine, so I don’t know if he’ll respond to you.  But he will hear you.”

 

“Can I…touch him?” Ryan asks, endearingly hesitant as one massive hand goes behind his own head, rubbing at his neck in a nervous tic.

 

“Of course you can,” she replies, smiling.  Reaching over, she lowers the rail on the side of the bed closest to Ryan.  “There you go.”

 

Slowly, hesitantly, Ryan reaches out and brushes the very tip of his index finger along the back of Colin’s right hand.  The skin is warm and dry—such a massive difference from earlier, when touching Colin was like touching a corpse, or at least what he imagines touching a corpse would feel like. 

 

Greg walks to the other side of the bed and leans down, his lips close to Colin’s ear.  “Hey, Col.  The doc said you did great in surgery and that you’re gonna pull through just fine.  All the guys are here, and they’ll be visiting soon, too.  And, I’m sure you know Ryan’s here trying to figure out whether or not he can hold your hand.”  He smirks at the look of death tossed his way.  “G’wan, Ry, for Hell’s sweet sake. It’s not like you’re gonna break it or anything!”

 

Ryan growls, but Greg’s words more or less shame him into sliding his hand under Colin’s, and from there, it’s only a quick squeeze of the fingers and Colin’s smaller hand is cradled easily and gently in Ryan’s giant mitt.  Somewhat awkwardly—because he’s a big guy, after all, and the chair isn’t—he leans forward and brushes his lips tenderly against his lover’s hand.  “I love you, Colin,” he whispers, pointedly ignoring Greg’s smirk and the nurse’s barely hidden grin.  “And you’re gonna get better fast, and you’re never, ever gonna do anything like this again, you hear me?”

 

Greg chuckles softly.  “I don’t think he can answer you, dude.”

 

“I don’t care.  He can hear me.  That’s enough.”  He leans in closer and his voice drops to a whisper.  “Please don’t ever put me through something like this again, Col…cause I don’t think I could take it.”  The tears aren’t spilling, but they’re very close, and he wishes Greg would just fucking leave so he could let them fall in peace, but Greg won’t leave because Greg loves Colin too, and besides, he saved all their lives, and….”Fuck!”

 

“What?” Greg asks, alarmed.  “What is it?”

 

“Nothing,” Ryan snaps, unable to help himself.  “It’s nothing, alright?”

 

The next thing he feels is a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly.  “I understand, Ry.  How ‘bout I grab a cuppa Java and come back in, say, fifteen minutes?”

 

The tears are closer now, and all Ryan can do is nod dumbly, but Greg understands and leaves, taking the nurse with him and pleading the case for a minute of privacy.

 

By moving the chair slightly toward the head of the bed, Ryan finds that his long arms can reach both Colin’s head and his hand, so he continues to cradle his lover’s hand as he strokes the fine, soft fringe of hair along the side of Colin’s head.  “I love you,” he murmurs again.  “I could say it a million times, Col, and it still wouldn’t be enough.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.”

 

And through the tears, a smile is born as to his questing hand an answering grip comes, brief, but strong, strong as any verbal declaration and letting him know exactly the place he holds in this sweet, funny man’s heart.

 

Completely drained, he lays his head on the soft, warm blanket, still gripping Colin’s hand, and falls immediately to sleep, secure for the first time since the horror of the day that Colin will be there when he again awakens.

 

*******

 

EPILOGUE

 

Four Months Later:

 

“Good evening everybody and welcome to Whose Line is it Anyway?  On tonight’s show, Listen to Your Mother, Mister…Wayne Brady!  Don’t Sit So Close to the Television…Greg Proops!  Stop Doing That Or You’ll Grow Hair on Your Palms…Ryan Stiles!  And Don’t You Ever, Ever, Ever, Ever, Ever Scare Us Like That Again…Colin Mochrie!”

 

The standing ovation went on for what could easily have been an eternity.

 

Confetti dropped like a mini ticker-tape parade, and it seemed like everyone in the studio wanted to shake his hand.

 

And through it all was the calming presence and the loving support of the one man who had kept Colin trapped safely in the land of the living.

 

“I love you, Ryan,” he mouthed, and the smile he received in return made every ounce of pain he’d endured worth it.

 

He loved, and was loved, and, for now, all was right with the world.

 

FIN.