Out of the Dungeon (6 page)

"Tell me what's happening," Roman asked the
room in general.

The male nurse answered. "The blood pressure
cuff measures his blood pressure every fifteen minutes. If it stays
stable for two consecutive hours, we'll reduce the frequency to two
times an hour. The clip on his finger measures the oxygenation of
his blood. Tells us if his breathing is effective. Normal is
ninety-six to one hundred percent, dangerous is below eighty. It's
going to stay right around ninety-nine to a hundred per cent
because we've got him on a ventilator. He probably doesn't need a
vent, he came in breathing on his own, and that hasn't changed, but
he was taking shallow breaths, which is pretty normal when a person
has broken ribs, and we need his blood fully oxygenated, broken
ribs or not. And we need him to conserve energy. You're looking at
a medically induced coma. He's had surgery on his cervical spine.
His head and neck have been immobilized. He'll be wearing a halo
apparatus, because it's a matter of maintaining spinal integrity in
order to maintain physical mobility. We take all of this very
seriously. We will take fantastic care of Jeff, and although all
the tubes and hoses don't look very pretty, they do their jobs, and
the only one who suffers is you. Jeff will sleep. And he'll
remember very little of his time in the intensive care unit. Which
is a good thing."

"It's too much to process," Roman said.

"Of course it is. If I've told you enough for
now, that's fine. I'll tell you more later. My name is Zachary, by
the way. I'm scheduled to be here afternoons for the next seven
days, so I expect to get to know your friend very well."

"My partner," Roman said.

"Yes. We'll take good care of him. The super
scary stuff is pretty much over. We know the extent of his
injuries, and the things that needed to be fixed have been fixed.
There's been no sign of internal injury or bleeding, which is
good."

Roman closed his eyes, which made him sway a
bit on his feet. Zachary took his arm. "I think you've had enough.
Tell him you're here, tell him you love him, and then go home. Come
back in a few hours. Two or three short visits a day is enough.
We'll get a schedule for you tomorrow. One five minute visit every
four hours or something like that. He needs to rest. You need to
eat and shower and manage the rest of your life. He'll want you
here when we start waking him up, but that won't be for a few
days."

"I should go home?" Roman asked.

"Yes. Go home. Get some food, take a nap.
Come back in a few hours to say goodnight, and then go home again.
Stop by in the morning before work and say good morning. There's
nothing else you need to do right now. Jeff's in very good
hands."

Roman nodded his thanks. He leaned over Jeff
and said, "I'm here. I love you. Everything's going to be
okay."

He walked out of the ICU on legs that
wobbled.

When they got back to the apartment, Roman
left Dare in charge of what to do about supper, and went to Jeff's
room to find the Johnson's number. Calling them was about the last
thing he wanted to do, but he had to do it.

Thank God for transparency, he thought, when
he found Jeff's address book in the desk drawer right where he
expected it to be. Transparency was like rule number one, or
something. Privacy was a privilege, not a right. Secret-keeping was
akin to treason. There would be no secret life, no secret heart, no
secret desire, and no secret wish. Any numbers in Jeff's cell phone
were to be copied into the book. Any screen names or email
addresses were also copied into the book. The front inside cover
had names and numbers for important people – like parents. Beneath
the address book, he found what looked like a recent journal. He'd
take a look at that, too, but first things first.

He took the address book and journal to his
own room, took a deep breath, and called the parents. They had a
land line, still had the same number they'd had when Jeff was
growing up, according to Jeff. Roman stretched out on the bed and
listened to the ringing on the other end of the line, hoping they'd
answer, then hoping they wouldn't. Then hoping they would again,
because he couldn't leave a message on their answering machine. Not
about something like this.

Jeff's mom answered on the eighth ring.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"It's Roman, Mrs. Johnson."

"Roman! Well, I'll be. I just said to Ed last
night, 'I wonder how those boys are getting on in the city?' How
are you, dear?"

He almost said 'fine,' so used to casual,
meaningless conversations with them. The Johnson's were fine,
upstanding Christian folk, enamored of the 'love the sinner, hate
the sin,' philosophy, and they were always polite to Roman. They
loved their son, had probably suspected he was homosexual long
about the time he was ten years old, and while they didn't hound
him to get married and give them grandchildren, they seemed to
pretend that Roman was merely Jeff's roommate, an arrangement of
convenience, due to the high cost of living in the city.

Jeff never pressed them into a better
understanding, or tried to force them into any kind of acceptance.
Their interactions were amicable, though superficial, which seemed
to suit everyone just fine.

"I'm not so good," Roman said, then paused,
unsure or unable to go on. He felt a shudder run through him that
clogged his throat, and he realized if he tried to speak he might
sob out loud.

"Is it the AIDS, dear? Oh, I worry about that
with you single guys."

Roman let out a shocked laugh, and it
loosened his throat so he could speak. Leave it to Betty Johnson in
upstate New York to worry about AIDS.

"No, no. But Jeff's been in an accident. He
was riding his bike to work this morning when he got bowled over by
a delivery truck. He's in intensive care at St. Anne's." He stopped
talking, waiting for a reaction.

"Well, don't stop there," Betty Johnson said.
"Is he going to be all right? Should we come to the city?"

"He's stable," Roman said. "They say he's
going to be all right."

Is that really what they said, Roman
wondered, even as the words passed his lips. Who said it, Dr.
Rashaviak, Katie the social worker, Zach the nurse? He couldn't
remember. The whole day was a blur. But the general attitude seemed
like Jeff would be okay – eventually, at least. He'd have some
rehab, but then he'd be fine, right? Or was Roman projecting his
own hopes onto the situation? With a lot of work – well, Roman knew
how to make Jeff work. Roman was the expert in motivating Jeff.

"He has broken bones and bruises," Roman
said, and it felt like the understatement of the century.

"Which bones?" Betty asked.

Roman took a deep breath. Could he even
remember everything? "Ribs, collarbone. Neck." The last word got
caught in his throat.

"Neck?" Betty asked. "Spine? Oh, my God."

"No spinal damage that they can tell. They
took him right in to surgery this morning to stabilize his neck.
He's on a vent, but the nurse assured me that he's capable of
breathing on his own, and that the vent is to conserve his energy,
so he'll heal faster."

"So he can move? He's not paralyzed?"

"The doctor said he's not paralyzed. He was
moving his fingers and toes in the emergency room."

She was quiet for a minute, then said softly,
"Should we come?"

"I don't know," Roman answered. "They let me
see him for five minutes, then sent me home. I can see him for
another five minutes in a few hours. I don't know what you'd do if
you came now, other than sit in the waiting room. But it's up to
you. I'll get you the number, you can call and talk to the doctor
or one of his nurses."

"Which hospital did you say, St. Anne's? I'll
look up the number myself. I'm not daft, you know."

"Of course you aren't. I'm sorry. I'm still
reeling, I guess."

"This has to be pretty shocking for a man who
likes to control everything," Betty said.

Under other circumstances, Roman would
question if there was some hidden meaning there, but not now. He
couldn't deal with it if there was, so there was no point in
wondering. "Do you have my cell phone number?" he asked.

"The number you're calling from shows as
'private' on caller ID, so I'm not sure."

Roman gave her the number, but after that
there was no more to say.

"Dare," Roman called out, and Dare came to
the doorway.

"What?"

"I'm going to hang out here for a while. Rest
maybe. Try not to lose my mind. I don't know what you want to do.
Are you supposed to work at the club tonight?"

Dare nodded. "At eight. I ordered soup and
sandwiches from the deli. Should be here soon."

"Perfect," Roman said. "I'm just going to
close my eyes for a little while. Let me know when it gets
here."

"Will do," Dare said.

D
are went to the
kitchen and put coffee on. He didn't know if Roman would want any,
but Dare would need some to get through his shift at the club.

Jeff the slave undressed in the foyer the
minute he came in the door, and then submitted himself to Roman's
service with some kind of ritual or ceremony. Sometimes Roman cued
Dare to follow that protocol, but Dare wasn't Jeff and didn't do
the 'slave' routine automatically. Sure, he'd figure out a meal,
would probably even serve it to Roman, but he'd do that for anyone
who's primary partner was hospitalized. It was about being
considerate and kind, not submissive.

Dare wasn't sure what Roman wanted from him
right now. Their kinky play wasn't continual or ritualistic, it was
just play, practically organized by appointment. Dare didn't feel
like it could be sustained any other way.

Roman was… Roman. That Dare was allowed to
trace the tattoos that rippled across Roman's skin was an honor.
Being an extra person welcome in Roman's home, his bed, was, Dare
had come to realize, a rare privilege. It felt good, no, great, to
know Roman better than most other people, excepting Jeff. It felt
like an honor, like Dare had been chosen. Singled out. And he had
been. But it wasn't like he could strip off his clothes, drop to
his knees, and take Jeff's place. Dare didn't have what it took for
all of that. Not even close.

When the delivery boy brought the food, Dare
arranged it in bowls and on plates, and arranged everything on a
tray that he carried to Roman's room. The fresh coffee was poured,
napkins arranged, oyster crackers in a small basket.

Roman smiled when Dare placed the tray on the
bed. "You don't know how much I was dreading eating alone."

"Of course I knew. It sucks being helpless
and having to wait. Especially for you."

"It sucks for everyone, I'm sure," Roman
said. "I just happen to like fixing things."

"And this isn't in your power to fix."

"Nope. Jeff's parents offered to come. I told
them there was nothing to do right now."

"What are you going to do tonight?" Dare
asked.

"I don't know," Roman said. "I'll visit Jeff
for a few minutes."

"Maybe you should come to the club after
that. I hate for you to be alone."

Roman shrugged. "Maybe. Friday night, so I
don't have any appointments. I could amaze my loyal patrons with a
demo, I suppose."

They showered together, washing one another
with the attention of lovers, then Dare went to work, and Roman
went to the hospital.

* * *

Standing outside the ICU doors, Roman wished
this was a nightmare, and that any minute now he'd wake up in his
bed, curled around Jeff.

He lifted the handset of the telephone on the
wall.

"Can I help you?" a friendly female voice
answered.

"Roman, to see Jeff."

"Oh, good. Come on in."

He hung up the phone. No one came to get him
this time. Instead, he heard a loud click, and when he pushed the
bar on the door, it opened.

Just walk through it, he counseled himself.
One foot in front of the other. It's not that hard.

When he reached Jeff's cubicle, he saw that
Jeff was agitated, arms and legs straining against restraints,
trying to lift his shoulders off the bed, trying to twist.

Zach looked stressed, watching tubes and
monitors, and talking continuously to Jeff in a calm, soft voice.
"Roman's here, Jeff. Everything is going to be okay."

"What's happening?" Roman asked. Now even
Jeff's feet were tethered by straps attached to the end of the
bed.

"He's fighting the sedative, and the vent,"
Zach explained. "The doctor came around half an hour ago. If the
vent is a source of anxiety, we'll have to remove it."

"Is this like… a sign of a head injury?"
Roman knew a guy who'd suffered a traumatic brain injury, so the
thought was chilling. Jeff might never be the same person he'd
been.

"Not necessarily," Zach said. "It's a sign
that he's fighting the sedative and doesn't like the vent. It
doesn't have to be any more ominous than that. He's restrained,
there's a lot of equipment and strange noise, and I expect he's
frightened because he has no idea what's going on."

"Jeff, be still." Roman said. He said it loud
and firm, the way he'd say it if he put Jeff in bondage and Jeff
started to struggle. He let his voice convey arrogance and control,
the stuff that Jeff responded to so well. More softly, he said,
"I'm in charge, and I'll keep you safe."

Jeff went still in the bed.

Roman went to the side of the bed and found
Jeff's fingers. He pressed his own fingers against Jeff's, holding
them, letting his thumb stroke circles against Jeff's wrist. He
leaned as close to Jeff's ear as he could, and said in a low voice,
"That's my good little slave. You're in the hospital because you
were hit by a truck. You will behave, and you will cooperate."