FH: Just Found Heaven Ch. 02: Max

I hadn't smoked for years, not since I was a teenager, but I'd picked up the habit shortly after coming back home. Publicly, I blamed the poor lifestyle choice on the stress of working in a new hospital ER in urban Miami, and all of the late-night double shifts I'd been pulling as the new guy, joking that I couldn't drink on the job so nicotine had to do. I suspected that everyone in my inner circle who knew about my past romantic history with Sam knew exactly why I'd actually picked up the habit again, but they didn't ask and I knew how to keep my mouth shut.

Muggy warmth wrapped around me immediately, gnawing through my lightweight suit though it wasn't as hot as it would be later in the afternoon. The temperature alone should've made me rethink taking the time out here to damage my lungs one puff at a time, but I needed a moment to clear my head. I put the cigarette pack down on the small bistro table outside before I opened the water to take a long drink of the cold liquid. I'd have preferred taking one of bourbon from the silver flask in my inside left jacket pocket that I'd taken a sip out of that morning in the bathroom before brushing my teeth, but I doubted that would go over well if Sam happened to come outside for any reason. It was also a little too country song poetic for me. I'd grown up with country music, and though I preferred hard rock and jazz now, as I recapped the water bottle, lyrics from a country song that I'd heard recently when I'd been flipping through stations on my drive home for work, suddenly decided to make themselves at home in my head.

-I'll wear my black suit, black tie, hide out in the back... I'll do a strong shot of whiskey straight out of the flask... I'll try to make it through without crying so nobody sees.... Yeah, she wants to get married, but she don't wanna marry me....-

Thomas Rhett had hit it on the head on that one. Even though my suit was silver, and I'd have a front row seat of the wedding festivities including Sam and Ben's first kiss as husbands because I was Sam's best man, the sentiment was still the same. He didn't want to marry me , and I needed to accept it.

I put the plastic water bottle back down on the table, and then tapped out a cigarette from the pack. I had it lit within seconds and took a long drag, holding it for as long as my lungs could handle the burn before I slowly released it. I watched the smoke curling slowly upwards lazily and reluctantly allowed my mind to drift...

***

"Max, we need to talk."

I turned when I heard my name, temporarily pausing my mission of stirring up the questionably warm, bright orangey red contents of my little container of microwavable Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs with a plastic spork because we'd run out of both spoons and regular plastic forks in the hospital's staff lounge. I'd been working ridiculously long hours since starting my residency a few years ago, so I'd gotten used to eating less than healthy, but speedy meals that I could scarf down while standing up and looking through patient charts if I had to. Chef Boyardee was a favorite of mine because of childhood nostalgia, though I kept from reading the ingredient label. Not because I really cared about the health sins of over-processed foods and the atrocity of red dyes, but because as a doctor, I needed to at least pretend to be a wellness warrior, and out of sight meant out of mind at times like this. I also got a secret, stupidly teenage boy's sense of perverse satisfaction when I ate it, because the little meatballs were balls that I could enjoy having in my mouth in a public place without the worry of sexual harassment charges lodged against like they would've been if said balls had been attached to a person.

I was a brilliant doctor. I also had the filthy mind of a happy hedonist.

I lifted an eyebrow when I saw my attending surgeon standing behind me in the otherwise empty staff lounge.

Dr. Morgan Chappelle had probably been a tall drink of dark and handsome water in his youth because some remnants of those days were still visible in his long, broad-shouldered frame that was still fit even though his gunmetal gray hair was streaked heavily with bright silver, and his face was creased heavily around his eyes and lips with laugh lines. He lived by the famous adage of walking softly and carrying a big stick, but since he was happily married and old enough to be my father, I never had any intention of finding out just how big his stick actually was. I wasn't a home wrecker and though my sexual kinks were many, saggy old balls would never have my love even if I respected Morgan immensely.

I'd been smiling as I turned around, my polite default when dealing with any co-worker but especially my boss since I liked my job and competition was fierce among the residents to land the very few and therefore very coveted permanent spots in the hospital's surgical teams. I felt the smile slip though when my brain—which was used to working in high-energy emergency situations that required quick thinking—registered the tight set to Morgan's strong jaw. My mentor's brown eyes were clouded with tension and locked straight on my face. He'd been a doctor for over 30 years, and most of that had been spent first as a field medic and then in emergency trauma units, so he was one of the calmest, most level-headed people I'd ever met; nearly impossible to rattle. One day I hoped to master that same calm headspace that translated visually as complete confidence in any emergency situation, especially in front of patients who were already agitated because they were in pain. But apparently even when you had mastery over your emotions, there were some things bad enough to force you back into training wheels.

This wasn't good. If there'd been an emergency with one of my patients I'd have been paged over the loudspeaker. Whatever this was, it was personal. Especially because he'd called me Max, not Dr. Melone like he did when we were in public and not sharing dinner with his wife outside of the hospital. I felt my heart drop down somewhere into the suddenly tight pit of my stomach. "Dr. Chappelle...what's wrong?"

I had to hand it to him. Morgan didn't drag things out to spare my feelings.

"Sargent Tramell and his team were ambushed in the field. There were mass casualties but he and the remaining survivors of his team were medavacced here about 45 minutes ago."

I considered myself fairly level-headed and cool under pressure when it came to most things, but suddenly there wasn't enough air in the room for me to try and suck in to smash through the instant panic that clenched my chest like a vise. My knees buckled, and Morgan grabbed my left arm to help steady me before he firmly pushed me down into a nearby, metal-backed chair while I tried to remember how to get my lungs to work. The little orange container of questionably nutritious pasta splattered all across the shiny white linoleum floor with the vividity of movie magic blood splatter after it fell from my shaking hands. Some of the sauce got on both my sneakers and Morgan's shoes but working in the ER meant both of us had been splashed with worse before.

"Is Sam alive?" My voice sounded thick and foreign in my ears like I had a frog stuck in my throat, but Morgan understood me anyway.

"Yes, he is. I'm not sure how many of the others are, but all the survivors are our highest priority and Sam's in surgery right now. He was severely injured but he was alive when he was rushed into the OR."

I exhaled slowly again. "What's Sam's prognosis? Tell me the truth, Morgan. Please."

Professional propriety went out the window because I needed to hear it straight. From previous experiences with other injured soldiers, I knew damn well that if Sam and his men had arrived via medavacc and been immediately rushed into surgery, it wasn't a good sign.

Shit had gone sideways out there.

"Sam's team was ambushed and under fire by enemy combatants. Sam was shot multiple times. The most concerning injury is a shoulder shot that nicked an artery on its way out. He lost a lot of blood and his stats were low when they took him to the OR but he was alive," he reiterated. "Dr. Tallon is the lead surgeon. Sam's in good hands, Max."

I nodded, trusting the simple physical mechanics of that movement more than I did my voice right now. Instead, I dropped my head between my legs for a moment, trying to regain my composure. I'd protected Sam most of our lives from bullies and assholes, including his brother, but even I couldn't stop bullets.

I wasn't anyone's fucking superman.

After a few slow, forced exhalations to get my breath under control so I could make more sense, I glanced up at Morgan though I remained seated. "Why am I just finding out about this?"

"Because I wanted you to hear it from me first when I actually had some news to give you," Morgan replied, his own voice composed thought there was obvious sympathy in his eyes. "I know the two of you are close. You're his emergency contact."

I nodded slightly. "I'm also his medical proxy."

I briefly closed my eyes for a moment because I didn't want to see the sympathy in Morgan's eyes spread. We both knew the responsibility that title would put on me if things went south and Sam ended up on life support.

Morgan knew that Sam and I were close, just not how close. Sam was so deep in the closet that he should've been crowned a high King of Narnia. I wasn't but we'd both always been open about our friendship to people who knew us individually as well as mutually. Everyone I worked with knew that Sam and I'd been friends since we were kids. I'd taken zoom calls from him a few times in the staff lounge when he could get the time to talk and I'd actually had time to eat warm microwavable mac n' cheese.

I exhaled slowly again. I was working like son-of-a-bitch to keep my voice steady. Falling apart even under extreme duress had never been my style but this was Sam... my best friend, my family and the same man whom I'd seen in person in a motel parking lot the last time we'd seen each other while he was on leave. We'd kissed goodbye and then I'd walked away, pretending that I hadn't heard him when he'd murmured, 'I love you,' under his breath. I'd fucking heard him in stereo, but he didn't know that and now I could lose him before I ever got up the nerve to say it back.

"I'm on call to assist just in case they need me," Morgan continued. "I'll page you as soon as Sam is out of surgery and in recovery. He'll probably be in the ICU for a while, but," he said, cutting me off with a short sweep of his hand when he saw me starting to coil for a fight, "I'll make sure you're allowed to stay with him if you want to," he said soothingly. "You might have to switch off with his brother though if he wants to see him. He also survived the ambush and is Sam's next of kin."

On some level, I should've been relieved to hear that Connor was alive because I was usually a decent human being, and despite being a general pain in my ass because of some of the shit that he put Sam through, Connor had been a part of my life for as long as Sam had. But I couldn't say I was thrilled because Connor having any rights to Sam simply because of genetics was bullshit. They shared DNA, but the one always there for Sam in good times and bad was me not Connor, and I knew that once I got into Sam's room with him, I wasn't going to want to leave until Sam was able to walk out with me for a drink to celebrate both his survival and his new battle scars.

As Sam's proxy, I could force legalities and deny Connor access to Sam in any capacity. Morgan knew that, but my contentious relationship with Connor was something that I kept to myself just like I did Sam's queer status. Inside a hospital under these circumstances wasn't the time to air our dirty laundry when the stink could end up clinging to Sam because it raised questions of why I wouldn't let Sam's only brother have access to him. "Promise you'll page me as soon as you know something."

"I will. I've also arranged for another doctor to take over your patients for the next few days until we have a better sense of what's going on. You won't be of any good to anyone right now so take a walk and just have faith."

That was easier said than done but I allowed Morgan to hug me quickly with firm pats to both shoulders that were meant to steady me though his former days of recreational boxing shook my own frame a bit. Still Army strong.

I made sure my pager was clipped to my belt and watched Morgan as he moved away toward the trauma unit in long legged strides. He probably would've stayed if I'd asked him to, but the longer that I that I kept him with me answering questions and holding my hand like a little girl, was more time that I was keeping a top surgeon and his medical expertise away from Sam. Now that I knew Sam was alive, my panic was giving way to my natural sense of pragmatism and I wanted the best possible people working on him. I trusted that Morgan would do everything in his power to save Sam and that allowed me to focus on keeping my shit together long enough to grill Connor when I eventually found him so that he could tell me exactly what the hell had happened with more details than Morgan had been able to provide.

I walked into the staff bathroom to wash my hands and splash cold water on my face. By the third wave of icy droplets on my skin, the heat in my ears had receded enough for me to meet my own eyes in the mirror with steady intention as I dried my face with the raspy paper towels that should've been relegated to some old-world medieval torture chamber. I chucked the wadded-up paper towel into the small metal wastebasket mounted to the wall before I went out into the main wing of the hospital. Morgan had suggested that I take a walk, but leaving the hospital for any amount of time was out of the question as far as I was concerned. My mind was moving in 100 different directions and always circled back to Sam. I couldn't help him right now though and I didn't have many other options though there was one even if it wouldn't normally be my first choice.

I'd never been big on religion even though my parents had raised me Baptist. I'd chosen to be baptized when I was 17, mostly to appease my mama who'd thought that having a religious baseline would tempter my teenage hormones. It hadn't worked because God apparently didn't discourage horniness no matter how well you were raised. I'd been to church a few times over the years, mostly when I was home, but I'd always wondered with some amusement if I'd just be taken out one day in a ball of wrathful fire as soon as I got within sight of the altar. Nothing happened now though as I entered the quiet hospital chapel.

There was usually one chaplain available but I didn't see anyone except an older couple who were sitting side by side in the very front pew on the left side of the chapel. As I sat to the right in a middle pew that was almost diagonal to their spot, I could see their lips moving. I wasn't close enough to hear their words but after watching the woman's thin lips for a moment and then glancing down at the beads twined around her slim fingers, I realized that she was praying the rosary. The hospital chapel was nondenominational, open to all who just needed a few pews and soft lighting to try and gather their thoughts when the fate of their loved ones was uncertain. I hoped that her prayers would give her peace. My own empty hands were free and flexed restlessly on my knees when I tried to get comfortable on the padded bench that was cushier on my ass than the hard wooden pews I'd grown up sitting on throughout my childhood. The padding was a small mercy because my scrubs were thin. They wouldn't have been much help against the bare wood and I didn't know how long I'd actually be sitting here.

Morgan had said that Sam was in surgery because he'd been shot and though he hadn't said how bad the damage was, I knew from experience that if Sam had been rushed straight into the OR without the usual planned surgery prep, it had to be bad. Worse than anything that had ever happened to him before.

Men and women in any military branch of the US Special Forces were an elite kind of tough, but surprise IED attacks were something that not even they could ever completely plan for. Sam was an active Army Ranger so this wasn't the first time that he'd been injured. His broad, hard body was littered with various badges of evidence of the past pain from an active military life, as well as the scars left by his abusive prick of a father during his childhood. I knew each of those scars as well as I knew the blemishes on my own body. I'd explored every single one of them more than once over the years when Sam and I'd been in bed together, but I'd never caressed scars from true bullet wounds because although Sam had been grazed along his leg by a bullet once, he'd miraculously never been shot before. Not a true flesh piercing shot. And he'd never been never injured to any degree that had required him to be rushed into emergency surgery.

I leaned back against the pew to center myself again because I couldn't afford to fall apart. Sam needed me to be strong because God only knew what condition he'd be in when he got out of surgery. As a surgeon I knew that even minor surgeries could encounter major complications no matter how good the operating surgeon was. And from what Morgan had shared with me, this wasn't going to be a minor procedure. Even if Sam survived, he'd probably have a long recovery ahead of him.

Don't fucking go there, Max. There is NO IF. It's WHEN, damnit. It's fucking WHEN Sam survives this.

I leaned forward and let my head fall between my hands, not because it was a prayer pose, but because it was a step above having my head between my legs which is where it wanted to be right now. Cold air dropped and was thinner near the floor and I needed to get as far away as I could from the overwhelming heat flooding my head..

"God, I know you're probably ready to send my guardian angels on a long, well-deserved sabbatical," I murmured aloud, "but instead I'm asking, no, I'm begging, even though I know I don't have any right to, that you send them to watch over Sam instead. Because he does deserve their protection and your grace. All he's ever tried to do is protect other people even at his own damn expense. He doesn't deserve to go out like this. He's my best friend and the best man I know." I paused, then swallowed hard around the sudden lump in my throat. "And he's the only person I love so much that his loss would end me." I ignored the trapped sting of tears behind eyes I didn't even realize I'd closed till then. "So please, just get him through this and help me to be there for him in every way I can.... Maybe finally in the way he's always wanted me to be. The way that I want to be. Please."

I lost track of how long I sat there after I'd finished my plea because keeping track of the time just meant knowing how complicated Sam's surgery was if it took more than a couple of hours. There were no windows in the chapel to let the outside sky track time for me, but I was vaguely aware of when the couple left. Another elderly man came in for a bit then also left so I was alone again, waiting for the page that would tell me if my world would keep spinning or completely stop.

"Max?"

I glanced up because I recognized the male voice immediately. Connor sounded almost like Sam, though in scrub pants and a hospital sweatshirt, some of the identical twin effect was lost. The last time that I'd seen Sam, he'd been wearing army fatigues because he'd been leaving our hotel room stateside when we'd both been on leave—and where'd kept him naked for those 48 hours— to get back to the airport to return to duty in Afghanistan. But this wasn't the time for that kind of trip down memory lane because I honestly didn't want to overlap the last time I'd been with Sam with having to deal with Connor who I hadn't seen in even longer. Not since the barfight he'd started years ago that had almost gotten us all arrested.