It Turns Me On When You Say No. [BoyXBoy]

ITMOWYSN- 9

^^ to thank her for the inspiring comment she left on my profile!!:D

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Eh. So I'm having a bad week:P that's why y'all get two chapters in as many days:) it's almost worth the torture to give y'all an exta chapter!;D

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(Heath's POV)

I was startled awake by screaming and shouting.

"You douche, why you takin' them assholes?! We've been here longer!" A loud male voice roared from the next cell block.

Bolting up, I scrambled over Quinn, hearing him grunt as I elbowed him in the gut.

"What's going on?!" I asked my unpleasant cell mate.

"I think you're getting released." He waved his hand, indifferent.

"Quinn! We're out, get up!" I spun around to Quinn, trying to get him off the bed. He simply groaned again, clutching his stomach.

My heart nearly stopped.

"Quinn? Quinn!" I shouted, scared to death that my lover wasn't okay.

Rolling over, Quinn fell off of the low bed, hitting the floor with his head.

* * *

The police drove us to the hospital quickly, turning the sirens on to get there faster.

As we pulled in, I gathered Quinn in my arms. Kissing his forehead, I leapt out of the car. I raced into the emergency room, and lay him on a hospital gurney. The hospital had been warned ahead of time and were waiting for us.

Two men came to take him away, and I tried to follow. A hand stopped me; a small female nurse stepped in front of me.

"You aren't allowed to go with him. He could have a concussion." She frowned, clearly just upset that I was being difficult, not that Quinn was hurt.

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(Four Hours Later)

I sat in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, trying to sleep. It was only noon, but being locked in a prison cell didn't really make you sleep well.

A doctor with a clipboard stepped out, and I tensed.

"Jamie Avarice?" Not Quinn.

Focused on my self-pity party, I didn't notice a small, nervous man walk up beside me.

"Mr. Devereaux?" I jumped, twisting towards him.

"Yes?! What's wrong with him? What's wrong with Quinn?" I demanded.

Scratching his head, he rocked side to side under my fierce glare. I read the name on the badge he wore, claiming he was Harold Smith, waiting for him to answer me.

"Knowing how much you care for him is making this even more difficult. I hate this job." Rubbing his eyes, he told me. Told me everything.

"He died on the table. We tried operating, but there was nothing we could do. I know this sounds routine, but I truly am sorry." The man patted my shoulder before retreating.

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The police picked me up ten minutes later, taking me to the lock-up and releasing my car. Quinn's jeans were still in the front seat.

Handing me the keys, the policemen muttered soft apologies before leaving me to my misery.

I drove home in silence, in shock.