Page 3 of Gunpowder

“Skin’s cool to the touch, pupils are—”

“—already have over ten people in here from the shooting at the nightclub, I need hands,” said the one that stood out from the others, the metronome keeping Blair’s confusing world on beat.

“Dr. Evans was already called over for the nightclub victims, we don’t have—”

“—in the middle of shift change between two student trauma teams.”

The deep voice again. “Whose turn was it to stay and do the handoff to the next team?”

“Masters.”

Blair’s gliding body turned and his head swam. He wanted a blanket, or even just to be back out in the warm night air. Anything to stop the chills. His hand twitched feebly at the effort of getting someone’s attention but his fingertips were numb and when he opened his mouth, he heard an aborted sound he barely recognized as his own voice. The doctors were speaking at the same fast pace, some of their words overlapping and leaving pieces of conversation hanging, disjointed in the air.

“—been on call for twenty-three hours, sir.”

“Page him to scrub in.”

Blair closed his eyes. When he opened them again everything had gone still. The noise had faded to a hum of static. He smiled; that was much better. There were still doctors but there were much longer pauses between their words. Blair was a talker, himself, but they were too much all at once like that. He closed his eyes again. Finally, he could get some sleep. Maybe if he got some rest he would remember why he was there.

There was a pinch in the crook of his arm, and the lights went off.

It was hard to distinguish between his dreams and when he was awake. His thoughts blurred at the edges and ran together. He could have sworn he was in the back of Felix’s car but then he wasn’t, the leather upholstery turning to crisp, clean smelling sheets before turning back to cement. There was blood on the concrete and he could taste the coppery tang of his wound.

The ground turned back into sheets and he found them clenched in his fists. Stay there, he thought, just stop changing. They were coarse against his calloused fingers and most importantly they were real.

This is a Smith & Wesson Victory.

Fluted silver barrel, lighter weight than the factory piece.

Planning over power.

That made sense but it wasn’t Spencer holding it, Spencer didn’t plan for this.

But he always has a plan, he’s always two steps ahead of everyone else.

But Blair was on the cement again and it was turning red.

“Fuck,” he said—either in his dream or awake, he didn’t know.

What he did know was that he’d got fucking shot.

“Good evening to you as well, Mr. Kennedy.”

Blair’s eyes shot open. He almost closed them again as the fluorescent light overhead assaulted his senses. That voice was familiar, though, and he squinted to adjust before seeking it out. Everything in the room was the same shade of white and it took a minute to distinguish the desaturated blurs from each other. Finally, the white wall became a white coat and within it was a man. The details of his face came into focus as he walked over to the bed. He was tall with broad shoulders, and dark hair cropped close to the sides of his head, slightly longer on top.

“Mettanome,” Blair mumbled.

The doctor’s pale eyes blinked at him from behind his rimless glasses. “Pardon?”

“Metronome,” Blair corrected dazedly once he relocated his tongue inside his mouth. “You’re... the doctor.”

“I am indeed a doctor. I’m Dr. Garrett.”

Gloved fingers pressed against Blair’s neck, feeling for swelling if he had to guess, maybe. Or a pulse. He didn’t think he was allergic to whatever was in his system, it was just making him loopy.

“Your friend tells me he mistakenly discharged his weapon while cleaning it.”

Blair laughed. He couldn’t imagine Spencer doing anything by mistake, especially anything that involved a firearm. “Yep. That’s right. No hard feelings.”

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