Page 3 of Capturing Perfection

He made the left-hand turn onto Beach Street and ahead of him saw the lights of the blue and white Ford Intercepter Utility parked in front of the entrance. The uniforms had already arrived. He double parked, keeping his lights on, then jumped out of the car. A sizeable crowd loitered in the street, no doubt trying to catch the latest cop drama gossip. He showed the officer at the door his shield.

“That’s my roommate in there.”

“Yes, Sir. The lieutenant radioed. Go on in.”

As Clay stepped into the bakery, the scents of traditional Chinese treats hit him. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d never eaten lunch earlier. Logan sat on the floor in front of the counter. He curled his six-foot-three-inch, muscled frame into a tiny ball, his eyes glazed and sounds unintelligible. He pressed his back against the counter and wrapped his arms tight around his knees. The old lady behind the counter yelled in Chinese, waving her arms towards the door. Clay had no idea what she said, but it probably had something to do with the disruption of their business.

“Ma’am. Please stop yelling. Give me a moment to take care of this, then your customers can come back in.”

She made a frustrated gesture and spewed more rapid-fire Chinese at him before turning around to go into the backroom. Sighing, Clay looked down at Logan, who appeared locked in a flashback. There was no recognition of his current surroundings. Clay kneeled on the floor in front of Logan and placed a hand on his shin to draw him away from the vision. The crisp hairs on Logan’s leg scratched against his palm. The muscled calf was firm and warm. He wrapped his hand around it and gave a gentle squeeze.

“Logan?”

There was no response.

He squeezed a little harder. “Logan?”

Nothing.

He was clueless about what to do. While the department provided them with training on de-escalation of situations, Clay didn't have direct experience in talking a person out of a flashback. People locked inside their own traumatic visions contrasted sharply with talking down a hostage taker or person threatening suicide. Suddenly, he remembered watching a movie where some Vietnam soldier was stuck in a flashback, and they had to address him as a soldier before he came out of it. Clay did not know if this would work and, frankly, felt a little stupid taking advice from Hollywood, but if it got Logan to snap out of it, he could get them out of here. He stood up, and in his most commanding voice, making sure he yelled loud enough to compensate for Logan’s hearing loss, he snapped. “Sergeant Callen?”

The haze in Logan’s eyes remained. Clay's voice went unrecognized. He tried again, “Sergeant Callen!” Nothing.

Shit! Now What?

Clay squatted in front of Logan. He didn’t know if Logan’s hearing loss prevented him from breaking free of the trance, or if Clay’s Hollywood trick hadn’t worked. Maybe physical stimulation would free Logan. Clay continued to rub Logan’s shins. After about a minute, he was growing both increasingly worried and frustrated. Clay pinched one of Logan’s hairs between his fingers and yanked.

There was a flash of something in Logan’s eyes. Clay really didn’t want to hurt Logan, but at this point he was desperate. He pulled another hair and Logan flinched.

Clay watched as Logan’s eyes slowly came into focus. Logan’s body started to shake, and Clay dropped to his knees. He gathered the strong man into his arms and held him. “I’ve got you.”

He knew Logan couldn’t hear him or read his lips at the moment, but hopefully, Logan felt his chest vibrating and took the sensations for the soothing they were intended to be. His hand rubbed up and down Logan’s back, the shaking slowly eased. He knew this was hardly the time, but the feel of Logan in his arms nearly sent him into an altered state. Heat radiated off Logan’s hard body, seeping through his light cotton T-shirt. Clay felt the muscles of Logan’s back contracting and wished he could feel their steely strength beneath smooth bare skin. He leaned back and looked into Logan’s now aware eyes.

“You with me?”

Logan nodded. Clay helped Logan to his feet, and Logan’s anxious gaze scanned the surrounding area. Clay recognized the moment Logan became aware of what had happened. His smoky blue eyes flashed sadness and resignation for a moment before turning hard with anger. Clay didn’t know if Logan was angry with himself or with Clay.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

Clay heard a rattling noise and looked down to see Logan gripping a bag in his right hand so hard that the paper was wrinkled beyond hope. His hand trembling caused the sound. Clay took the wrapped food and put his arm around Logan. To hold the man up and shield him from the noisy-noserton's outside.

He nodded to the uniforms standing by the door. "Thank you."

"Good luck, detective. Hey, I know this may seem none of my business or anything, but have you looked into the Home Base program? It's a partnership between Wounded Warrior Project and Mass Gen. Just you know, in case he doesn't want to or can't get help from the VA."

Clay was so glad Logan couldn't hear the officer. He knew the man was only trying to be helpful, but Clay felt the tension radiating from Logan's body and didn't want to make thingsworse. The man had been completely resistant to seeking mental health services so far. In fact as little as they did speak to each other, Clay knew the one thing that could send them into a total lockdown would be to bring upthattopic again.

"Thanks for the info. Can you make sure the owners are squared away?"

The officer and his partner nodded, then Clay headed straight for the black Ford Fusion he'd driven over. He unlocked the vehicle and as soon as the turn signals flashed, Logan pulled away from him. He jerked open the door, climbed into the front seat, then slammed it shut. Clay sighed as he crossed in front of the car. A drier headed down the street blared his horn and Clay stopped in the middle of the street, held up his badge, and stared the man down. Their standoff ended after about thirty seconds, and Clay climbed into his vehicle. The driver took off with a legal amount but aggravated acceleration, and Clay shook his head.

He retraced his path back towards South Boston. His apartment was on West Seventh, only eight blocks from the station. Clay could tell by Logan’s stern face that once again, there would be no talking. It was going to be a long trip, especially since now he couldn't use his get out of traffic free lights.

Finding a place in a smaller building thrilled Clay. With only four units, he knew his neighbors enough to be friendly, but not so much they were all up in each other's lives. The owners had done an excellent job of restoring the interior of the older building. It had a very homey feel for the apartment price. High ceilings helped his and Logan’s tall bodies not feel closed in. Hardwood floors negated the need for vacuuming, and a single bathroom minimized cleaning. His last boyfriend had gushed over the crown moldings, coffered ceilings and raised panel wainscoting. He had no idea what that all meant, but the place was home and he liked it.

When Clay opened the door, Logan stepped inside, and it was as if his body simply couldn’t hold itself up any longer. The mental and physical strength that had held him upright following the flashback deserted him. Clay saw the sag and wrapped his arm around Logan’s waist from behind. He led him into the second bedroom Logan had been using. Clay turned Logan to face him, placing his hands on Logan’s broad shoulders.

“You look like you need a rest. I’ll get your meds.”

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