AN: Had to get one more chapter out of my head... It wouldn't leave me alone. Lucky you guys huh? ;) inspiredthoughts@hotmail.com *************************** Framed: Chapter One **************************** Chris didn’t remember much of the ambulance ride, just knowing that Justin wasn’t riding with him, and having pale blobs with blue uniforms hovering around him. They spoke in foreign languages that floated around his head like a dream. The word ‘shock’ was common as they pressed cold rags to his brow, poking, prodding, searching for explanations Chris’s battered mind hurt too much to supply. There was a prick in his arm and sedation drugs coursed like oxygen through his starved veins. His eye closed despite the nightmares he knew would come, lowered against their own accord as he slept, curled into himself with a fetal position on the hospital gurney as sirens shrilled distantly in his ears. ************************************************************************************** He woke slowly as his consciousness tried to swim through the haze of his clouded mind. He was first aware of sheets pulled to his chin, then an IV strapped to his wrist. Chris’s tired eyes followed the length of the dripping tube vacantly until they rested on the nearly empty IV bag next to his bed. He tried to swallow and his throat was raw and dry. He slowly looked around the sparse room he was in, taking in his surroundings. It was a private room, with one large window and closed blinds on his left. There was an empty bedside table next to his head on the left as well, and an empty chair was pulled up to the same side of his bed. There was a small black and white TV mounted near the ceiling over his bed and Jerry Springer flickered aimlessly on the blurry screen. Chris heard muted voices and turned his head, still half drugged, to the right where a doctor promptly opened the closed door, clipboard in hand and possessing that air of vague hurriedness and superiority that made Chris hate his kind. He had been looked down on so much in life he had little respect for people or professions who based their worth upon belittlement. The doctor was tall with the stooped shoulders people had who grew too fast and were insecure for the rest of their lives. His hair was gray and thinning at his temples and her mouth was twisted into a frown that Chris would have bet was permanent. His lab coat was impeccable with ironed creases. Chris wanted him to go away. “So, you’re awake… That’s good.” The doctor walked into the room and absently checked the IV before reading some numbers off the machines humming softly on Chris’s right. The doctor wrote some observations down on the clipboard before giving Chris his half hearted attention once more. “I’m Doctor Chandlers, do you remember why you’re here Mr. Kirkpatrick?” Chris felt himself frown as he struggled to piece his memories back together. He remembered flashes, shards, of the trauma that had found him here. There was heat and Justin’s empty house and Justin crying in baby blue and the gleam of a handgun… There was the sickening crack of a bullet being fired and blood staining hardwood floors and Justin’s white throw rug. He paled and sucked sharp breath through his chapped lips. “Justin…” Chris whispered before looking up at the doctor with frantic eyes. “Justin… what happened to Justin?” Dr. Chandlers stared at him with a cross of curious pity and cold contempt and Chris shivered. “That’s what some gentlemen want to talk to you about, now that you’re awake.” The doctor turned and went over to the door where he opened and waved two men in. The first was swarthy and dark, tall as a basket ball player, and Chris idly wondered if the man had played in his younger days. His partner was of medium height, with sandy brown hair cropped close to his head. The taller man was older by several years and his hair was peppered with obvious signs of age. They both studied him intently and Chris wanted to squirm under the intensity of their stares, brown and blue respectively. Chris barely noticed when the doctor excused himself, leaving him alone with the strangers. “Who are you?” he asked uneasily as his fingers played with the bed sheet. Chris blinked a moment, distracted, when he noticed that his knuckles were bandaged on his left hand. He shuddered as he remembered straining against Justin, twisted together, fighting, Chris for life and Justin for death. He took a deep, steadying breath, but it didn’t help much. The shorter man coughed softly, drawing Chris’s attention back to him as he walked around the bed and took the chair on the left. The other man stayed standing, dark and intimidating. “We’re here to ask you a few questions,” the shorter man said as he pulled out a small notepad and a pen. Chris stared at him, uncomprehending. “Who are you?” he asked dumbly, again. The man frowned and looked away for a moment before looking back, his blue eyes locking onto Chris’s brown. “My name is Detective Morrison and this is my partner, Detective Harris.” Detectives… Chris’s eyes slid to the plain, muted colors they wore, the long coats, and acknowledged the professionally brisk air around them, and their edge of menace. “Questions about what?” he demanded thickly. Detective Morris cracked his knuckles and Chris jumped. The younger man smiled gently in apology and Chris felt older than his thirty odd years. “Just some questions about what happened to Justin. There was a gun and a, a struggle, and a shot. We have a wounded man and we just are trying to get a better understanding of what happened.” “Justin’s alive?” Chris asked, disbelieving even as hope clawed like cruelty at his heart. He remembered the blood too well now to take the word of strangers on his little brother’s safety. “Yes,” Detective Harris rumbled, “Justin Timberlake is still alive. You sound surprised.” Chris gaped as the hard brown eyes studied him like a hawk. His jaw closed with an audible snap as he suddenly realized why these men were in his hospital room. Why everyone was staring at him with cold, cold eyes. “You think I shot Justin,” Chris whispered, shocked. “Didn’t you?” Harris demanded quickly. Chris swallowed his tears and rocked back fully lying onto the bed. His eyes focused on the television over his head as his hands clutched the sheet like a security blanket. The detectives tried to get him to answer their questions, first conciliatorily, then angrily, but he ignored them both, letting their painful words slide off him. His tears fell anyway, unnoticed, as he watched Jerry Spring on mute. He barely noticed when the police left, two episodes later. There had to be a marathon on. ************************************************************************************** Lance looked like an angel to Chris, all soft and pale and blonde with green, green eyes. He didn’t care that Lance was unshaven and bleary eyed from crying, that his clothes were rumpled and mismatched, he was Lance and that was all that mattered. He stood in the doorway for a long minute, silent, shy as ever. JC used to be shy but he hadn’t been shy in a long, long time; he was private still but not shy. Chris liked Lance shy; it was easy to make him blush. Chris heard his younger band mate sigh before he walked into the hospital room. Chris stopped feigning sleep and sat up, startling Lance, who smiled tiredly at him, the shadows on his face speaking volumes. Chris held out his arms, not caring that he was just as unsavory, needing the contact of one of his brothers, no matter how girly it might seem. He liked Lance because he always gave him hugs, questions unasked. Lance sat on the edge of the bed, perched nervously as he fiddled with his hands. “How is he?” Chris asked, speaking for the first time in nearly two days. His voice was rough from disuse and he wondered if they would ever sing together again. Lance blinked back sudden tears, his green eyes swimming, and answered softly, “They’ve stabilized him. They… they aren’t sure if he’ll make it though.” Lance took a deep breath and continued, his own voice unsteady, “he’s in a comma Chris. They think they’ve taken care of the internal bleeding and everything else but now, they just don’t know. They say he’s in there but he doesn’t want to come out. He might wake up tomorrow; he might never wake up. They just don’t know.” Lance laughed bitterly, the sound ugly on his Mississippi lips. “Doctors are fucking morons.” The curse was a blessing from his younger brother and Chris laughed through his own tears. They sobered up together. “They, they think I shot him.” “I know,” Lance said, “that’s why I’m here.” “Oh,” Chris whispered, pained. “Of course…” That was why Lance was here instead of Joey or JC or all three. Lance was good at not judging. Joey was good at blaming and JC hated everything that he didn’t understand, like why Justin was lying half dead in a hospital bed. Of course they had sent Lance. It was the only logical choice. Chris found that rationale funny in a very sad way. He laughed with silence hysteria as Lance watched with sad green eyes, like empty fields, his pale fingers intertwined with worry. “What happened Chris?” Lance asked, sounding weary and as old as Chris felt. “I didn’t shoot him Lance!” Chris cried, impassioned, and Lance scooted forward to soothe him, his hands moving to make slow circles on Chris’s shoulders. Chris ignored him. “I didn’t shoot him” he repeated stubbornly. “I know,” Lance murmured, “Its okay Chris. What happened?” He swallowed. “He called me the night before sounding so lost so, so young. He wanted to cry; I could hear it in his voice, so I agreed to come over the next morning since I was crashing nearby. I went over the next day and he wouldn’t answer his door so I used my key, the emergency one he gave all of us… What about his dogs? Did anyone remember them?” Chris pleaded, suddenly frantic. “They were outside in the awful heat and…” “Shh,” Lance calmed, low voice comforting in its deepness, “everything’s taken care of. Its okay Chris, its okay…” “No its not,” he whimpered as he stared past Lance, unseeing, “Justin wanted to shoot himself. That’s why he hadn’t answered his door. I tried to talk him out of it and he, he put the gun to his head and started to pull. I, I couldn’t take it away from him Lance- I tried so damn hard. We fought but I wasn’t strong enough. I, he pulled the trigger and… there was so much blood Lance, so much blood, Justin blood, so red, bright on the floor…” Chris was babbling but couldn’t stop himself as everything he had been repressing flooded to the surface. Lance rocked him carefully, like a child, and Chris clung to him, happy that Joey or JC weren’t here to see him breakdown. Chris wasn’t allowed to break down; he was the adult. And the baby had tried to kill himself. “Why didn’t you talk to the detectives Chris?” Lance asked gently. “Because,” Chris replied brokenly, “I could see my guilt on their faces. I didn’t shoot Justin, Lance… I didn’t…” “I know,” Lance answered again as he continued to rock him, “I know. We’ll fix this, we will.” Chris just wished that Lance had sounded more certain.