John feels like he can’t breathe, like he’s trapped under three tons of stone and his chest is being compressed, because that’s the emergency alarm going off and the medical team being summoned to the Gate room, and that’s Carson kneeling over Evan on the floor, and that’s a lot of blood. Janes and Volsky are covered in it, too, but the way that the medical team is almost entirely ignoring both of them just twists John’s gut more, because that means that the blood’s not theirs, it’s Evan’s.

“What happened?” He’s trying to sound like the commander of the base, not the guy whose secret-sort-of-boyfriend might be bleeding out on the Gate room floor, but he’s not sure he quite manages it. It’s Evan’s scientist who answers for the team, stepping forward into John’s personal space and meeting his eyes squarely.

“He jumped in front of me when the shooting started,” Parrish says evenly. “If he hadn’t, I would have died pretty much instantly.”

John draws in a ragged breath, because it’s such an Evan thing to do, and because now it might be Evan dying instead of Parrish. He’s not sure what it says about him that he has a sudden, desperate wish for it to be the other man lying there now, except that it’s nothing good or charitable and Evan would frown at him if he knew.

Evan’s frowning anyway, and moaning, and there’s more blood than John wants to see still dripping from two ragged holes in his torso. He leaves because he has to, because he can’t watch this.

Time both races and crawls. John can’t decide which it is, or which is worse; slow means no news about Evan, but fast means that it might be bad news. Slow is torture waiting, while fast is torture knowing.

Finally he’s allowed into Evan’s room, and Carson takes one look at the expression on John’s face and hands him a small bottle that John already knows is full of Ambien that he won’t take. Carson puts a hand firmly on John’s shoulder, says “He’s going to be fine,” and leaves, and John suddenly knows that Carson knows, and just as suddenly knows that he doesn’t care.

He heaves out a sigh as he sits in the chair by the bed, leaning forward to put his head in his hands. He just stares at the floor for a while, one hand still clutching the pill bottle to his head. He doesn’t move when Janes and Volsky come in, stays there when Parrish drops by to thank Evan’s unconscious form. He sits in the chair while Carson enters time and time again, leaving only to use the facilities, and even then making sure a nurse is in there while he’s gone.

It’s three long days before Evan wakes up, and John’s been sitting there pretty much the entire time. Evan can’t talk, because there’s a tube in his throat, but he squeezes John’s hand strongly in his own while John babbles at him, nonsense and exhaustion and relief.

Later, when he’s had the tube out and most of the visitors have already come and left, Evan squeezes John’s hand again. John hasn’t let it go since Evan woke up.

“So,” he says. “Apparently everybody knows.”

John hasn’t been thinking about rules or regulations or the fact that their careers are probably over. All he’s been able to feel is the sheer force of not dead, not dead on repeat through his body. He shrugs in response. “I think they figured it out when I refused to leave and made them bring my food here.”

“Okay,” Evan says, as if it’s that simple.

“You’re okay with it?” John asks tentatively, wondering if Evan’s still a little loopy from the meds Carson has been pumping through him.

“Yeah,” Evan replies, smiling at him. “I’m not dead, you’re here, and we’re going to be fine.”

John grins back at him, because when Evan puts it that way, John believes it.

Thank you so much for this. When I passed on the words, I never saw as much in them as you did! You wrote a perfect ficlet for these lyrics. Wow!
Well just goes to show why you're the writer and I'm the reader.
Great story -thanks again.

Thanks dear :)