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Mexican Standoff

Episode 10 written by EDuse2
Original air date:

Disclaimer: The characters in the following fan fiction do not belong to me. They belong to CBS and Viacom and other powers that be. I am only using them for the purpose of writing this story. No money is being made from this writing it is for entertainment purposes only. And now on with the show...

 Intro

"You take the perimeter - I’ll go in. Looks like a dead end anyway. Why is it that informants always give tips in the middle of the night - never, say, right after lunch?"

Cheryl grinned. "Because they hate to be seen. Because they’re usually criminals ratting on other criminals. You’re just mad because you didn’t get your beauty sleep."

"Don’t be silly," Steve reached for his regulation flashlight. "I got a good two and a half hours. What more does a guy need?"

"It’s the choices of location that I like." Cheryl wrinkled her nose fastidiously as she glanced around the broken down auto repair shop. "Dumps. Alleys. Why can’t anybody find a good lead someplace nice and clean and sanitary?"

"Not to mention well-lit." Steve pulled the car behind a rusted out pickup and turned off the engine, tripping the car door handle. "Would it be a crime to have a few leads someplace where you could actually see?"

They both fell silent as they stepped out of the car and looked around. Cheryl signaled the path she intended to take around the perimeter and started off to the left. Steve headed toward the darkened building. Cars and trucks in varying degrees of disrepair sat hunkered everywhere, hulking shadows in the dark. Well, at least there was lots of cover.

Ducking behind the autos, he made his way to the corrugated metal drop-down door. It was fastened with a rusty padlock. He sighed through his nose. And me without a search warrant. Well, maybe just a peek. He peered into a small, fly-specked window, but could only make out more shadows. What a waste of time.

He crossed around behind the building, flashlight held out to the side. There was a small yard here, and what looked like discarded auto pieces. He toed at a cracked water pump, checked out the windows on the other side of the building. Nothing. With another sigh, he turned to examine a tumbled stack of pipes and metal so old that their origins were unidentifiable. He played the flashlight over them, wishing he had some idea exactly what it was he was looking for anyway. He was so engrossed that the low sound that suddenly broke the silence of the night caught him completely off guard. He raised his eyes to look.

The low, menacing growl came again, deeper and longer this time. Just on the other side of the stack of pipes, blocking his egress from the yard, stood a dog of some kind of mixed parentage - bull mastiff, maybe? Or bull terrier? with a broad chest and wide jaws, standing stiff legged, his ears back and his tail stuck straight out behind him. Steve stood still.

He needed to get around him, but the dog didn’t look very willing. In the beam of the flashlight, his eyes glowed almost red.

Something rattled softly and Steve shifted the light to the chain dangling around the dog’s neck. All right, all he needed to do was to figure out how far that chain reached. Before he got chewed to bits, that is. The dog growled again, more aggressively this time, and Steve took a careful, calculated step backward and to the left. He wondered where Cheryl might be. The dog’s shoulders hunched warningly. Steve took another step back, slowly, trying to get a better look at the end of the chain. He spotted it, and his stomach slid down into his shoes. It wasn’t fastened to anything. He was delicately reaching across to his holster when the dog sprang.

It was like being hit by a missile of knotted muscle and bone, the world a nightmarish glimpse of fangs and steaming breath. He hit the ground with a force that punched the breath out of him, felt stubby claws sink through his shirt and into his chest, scraping, over a hundred pounds of weight clawing for a grip. He instinctively raised the arm that had been reaching for the gun to protect his throat, pushed at the flat, massive head with it. The iron jaws closed over it like a steel trap. His own cry of pain echoed in his ears.

The world flipped upside down, a red and pulsing landscape of agony. He could feel the teeth grind deeply into muscle, scrape against bone, felt the warm splash of his own blood and the dog’s saliva against his face. He hit at the head with his heavy flashlight, but the dog shook it off like a landing fly, shaking Steve’s arm too, so that everything twisted into a tight spiral of darkness, shot through with a sickening wash of hot and noxious colors. Bone and muscle seemed to separate from each other and a humming blackness rushed to smother him. He tried to swing again with the flashlight, at the shoulder this time, but even adrenaline wasn’t enough to give him the strength he needed. The flashlight dropped from his hand, rolled a few feet away. Blood thundered in his ears.

"Mijo!"

The sudden bark of a human voice barely registered - what did register was the stiffening stillness of the scrabbling claws on his chest.

"Mijo! Bastante!"

The crushing grip on his arm loosened, the sensation of the blunt teeth pulling back through his flesh almost more agonizing still. The rugged jaws gave his arm a last shake that almost sent him under, then, with a sullen growl, dropped it. The weight disappeared from his chest. He didn’t even care where to; he curled protectively around his savaged limb, choking on the urge to throw up, his brain burning with pain. He felt a hot wetness dampening the remaining scraps of his shirt - from the bite on his arm, or the clawed chest? Who could tell? - was just barely aware of deliberate footsteps crossing the ground in his direction. Some trained part of his mind recognized the sound of a gun cocking - something semiautomatic, he catalogued rotely, or even automatic - even as something cold and solid nudged the area behind his ear - rested there.

"So, Ese," began a voice in a growl infinitely more menacing than the dog’s. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Steve opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a strangled choke. He felt something tug roughly at his side, then a muttered curse in what sounded like Spanish. There was an angry yank at his belt, then another. Damn. His gun. Worse, his badge. This was not good.

His fears were confirmed as the cursing grew louder and more emphatic. Even through the chill sweat that filmed his skin he could feel the coldness of the metal push more deliberately at his skull. "Policía," the voice hissed. "Adiós, culo."

Steve tried to focus past the pulse pounding in his ears. This would definitely be the time for a dramatic move. If only he could think of one. If only he could move, period. He cradled his arm, trying to staunch the flow of blood long enough to help him think clearly. Instead, the world wavered, swung into a sickening spin. He could only think of one thing to do. He pressed his eyes tightly closed and waited.

"I wouldn’t." Cheryl’s voice was almost as welcome as the familiar sound of the trigger of a police special ratcheting into place.

*

"I wouldn’t." Cheryl hoped no one else could hear her heart pounding over the words. "Put the gun down and step away from the officer." Yeah, okay. That sounded pretty tough. Without taking her eyes completely off of the man casually brandishing the sub-machine gun, she tried to get a better glimpse of Steve. In the faint beam of the downed flashlight, the ground glimmered wetly around him. Blood. Lots of blood. Don’t get distracted, Cheryl, or you’ll get both of you killed!

The shadow of the figure silhouetted against the night didn’t shift the barrel of his weapon even slightly, but she caught the shine of a glimpse of white teeth against the darkness.

"’Ey, Guapa!" he saluted cheerfully. "I would love to oblige, but, uh -" he shrugged eloquently. "Then you would arrest me, no? So I think maybe I won’t."

"I said, put your weapon down!" Maybe he hadn’t noticed that little quaver trying to sneak into her voice. "And step away from the officer."

The shadow shifted, his head tilted at a considering angle. "You know," he continued thoughtfully, "I still don’ think I should? I mean, you shoot me, but I shoot him too, yes? And maybe you don’t even get to shoot before I signal my friend." He jerked his head toward his left shoulder and Cheryl heard a low, rumbling growl, almost below the level of hearing.

She glanced quickly in that direction, noticed the huddled dark mass, crouched ominously. In the stingy portion of moonlight she saw the jaw unhinge, revealing a darker maw, a faint, moist shine ringing it. More blood, she realized, with a warning lift of her stomach. Steve’s. She turned her eyes back to the crumpled figure of her partner and the looming shadow with the chunky firearm pointed downward, directly at him. For a moment she was at a loss.

The flash of white teeth came again. "So you see," he offered conversationally, "We have what you might call a -" the strip of white broadened, "Mexican standoff." He chuckled. "A good joke, no?"

Cheryl kept her gun steady, not sure how to answer, a little frightened at how true that was.

"Of course," He continued with repellent pleasantness, "We can just wait to see who tires first, yes? I have lots of time. Maybe you do too."

He toed with sudden viciousness at the figure at his feet, and Steve’s guttural gasp of pain was almost her undoing. "This one, though - I think maybe he doesn’t have so much time. I think maybe he is running out of time fast. What do you think?"

Cheryl swallowed determinedly, her gun grip slick in her sweaty palms. She dragged her eyes away from trying to measure the width of the pool dampening the grass and fixed them on her opponent instead. "I already called for backup." She tried to keep her voice firm. "This place will be crawling with cops in no time." Please God, let it be no time. There should be somebody near here, shouldn’t there?

Even in the uneven light she could see the shadowy shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. "Many more people to watch him die."

Cheryl pulled in a deep breath, locking her knees to stop their shaking. "That would make you a murderer."

The grin flashed again, more broadly this time. "Perhaps you should arrest my dog then, no? But - um…" the grin grew to include another chuckle. "I don’ think he will go peacefully. He has a temper, has Mijo."

Cheryl forced her eyes not to wander to the bulky shadow, crouched just out of her line of vision. "I think I could make that work as assault with a deadly weapon."

"Or maybe I could complain of trespassing. Mijo protects my property from night prowlers. What do you think, amigo - were you trespassing?" Like lightning, his hand shot down and grasped Steve’s collar, yanked him into sitting position so that he bounced against the crumbling stack of pipes. The darker blotch that represented the gun stayed firmly thrust against his neck. Steve didn’t gasp this time - the only sound he made was a wet, struggling wheeze, like a damaged bellows.

Cheryl could see the faint light reflect whitely off of the puddling wetness that drenched Steve’s front and her brain sang in her skull.

Stop it, Cheryl, she ordered herself. Steve needs your courage and cool head, not your sympathy.

She forced her eyes to stay fixed on the shadow with the gun, her ears straining for the sound of a siren. "Doesn't matter," she managed in a voice that was only a little breathless. "You know he's a cop now and you're standing by and letting him bleed. That makes you an accessory after the fact and, if he bleeds to death, a cop killer. That gets you the death penalty."

"Hm…" the figure shifted, the gun nudging with seeming nonchalance at Steve's neck. Cheryl didn't fool herself for a minute that there was anything casual about it - she knew he was using brutalizing Steve as a means to unnerve her. Problem was, it was working. "Of course, there would have to be someone to say that this is what happened, no? And maybe there won’t be anyone."

Cheryl tightened her muscles. "There's me."

"Sí …" the thoughtful tone was underlined with mockery. "But then, maybe I shoot him, and Mijo panics and attacks you. This gun - it is a - what do you call it? Import?" The white teeth flashed again, "Sí . A import. Very faulty trigger, these imports - it goes off sometimes with the smallest twitch, and my finger is getting tired. Or maybe I shoot you, and Mijo finishes making a snack of your friend. Yes, I think that would be better. I hate to see what Mijo could do to a pretty woman. A few bullets are much cleaner."

Cheryl heard the dog's chain rattle warningly and stiffened her neck until it ached to keep from turning her head to check on him. "Of course, in the meantime, maybe I’ll shoot you too," she suggested.

"Maybe." The shadowy head bobbed in agreement. "We would just have to see, hm? But either way, I think he is a goner, yes?"

Cheryl could see a dark glimpse of movement shoot out at just above ground level, heard the dull, sodden impact of a boot heel somewhere around Steve's arm, Steve's shout of pain, cut short by a snapping cough.

"And I don’ think that’s what you want. I'm right, yes?" The mock friendliness of the voice was threaded with anger now, challenge.

"No. I don't want that." Cheryl wished she could wipe her hands on her slacks and get rid of some of the clamminess that drenched them. "And I don't think that that’s best for you, either. Don’t forget, there are cops on the way. I called this in. We can't just disappear. It's all about damage control now. It doesn't have to mean a lethal injection for you."

There was a pause. "They're very slow, your friends the cops," he suggested at last.

Tell me about it. "But they'll get here. You don't want them to find a dead cop. Cooperation will look good for you."

"Ah. Cooperation." The voice was very serious this time, but Cheryl still got the impression that he was laughing at her. "So you would like me to…? What?"

Cheryl sipped in another breath. "At least let me bandage him - try and stop the bleeding."

The figure seemed to consider this, the gun muzzle digging warningly at the hollow where Steve's jaw met his neck. "Sí," he said at last.

Cheryl felt the breath whoosh out of her lungs in relief.

"Of course," the voice continued musingly, the white flash glimmering again, "that will mean putting down your gun."

Cheryl swore inwardly, clenching her teeth. "You do it, then."

"Hm." The voice was reflective. "But you see, that would mean ME putting down MY gun. So, no, amiga. I do not think so."

"We can't just stand here and watch him bleed to death!" It wasn't anything that she had wanted to say, it had sprung from her unbidden, but it was too late to take it back and the slow, sighing sound of Steve's breath as he struggled against blood loss was picking away at her resolve. How long could somebody last like this without dying of shock? How would she feel when all this was over if she just stood here, helpless, and let Steve die?

The shadowy shrug repeated itself. "So. Put down your gun and see to him. I will not shoot you if you do. I promise."

Cheryl hesitated. It was a possibility. She could do that. He would make them both hostages, of course, but at least she would be able to look out for Steve, to prolong his life until help got here. It was a calculated risk, but worth it if it saved them both in the end. Or maybe she could even convince him to trade her for Steve as a hostage. A wounded man could become a burden, if he wanted to make a deal to flee. On the other hand, Steve’s condition made dealing with the man urgent in a way that a healthy hostage like herself could not. Or he might decide to shoot Steve then and there and make do with her…she hesitated, frozen by indecision.

"Sergeant."

The voice was so faint that she would have missed it if she hadn't been unconsciously waiting, hoping for some sign from him. She saw the man with the gun stiffen, licked her lips.

"Hit…in…jurrr…" The words dragged themselves out so painfully that Cheryl had to swallow a sob of protest.

She tightened her grip on her gun, her head spinning, trying to understand. Steve never mentioned the difference in their rank - ever. He always addressed her by the more neutral title of detective. So he was trying to get her attention, to tell her something important. Hit..hit what? Hit in…

The sky was growing somewhat lighter, the shadows greying, and she could make out more than an outline of her opponent, could catch the faint shine of Steve's eyes in the minimal light, telling her that he was watching her, willing her to understand him. Hit…in…gyer…oh. She felt tears spring to the corners of her eyes. Hettinger.

Karl Hettinger had been an LA police officer who had given up his gun to save his threatened partner's life. The situation had ended disastrously, and standard LAPD procedure from then on had dictated that an officer would never, NEVER surrender their firearm in a hostage situation.

Cheryl blinked fiercely at the moisture clouding her vision. Well, I know just how you must have felt, Hettinger. What were you supposed to do - just stand there and watch him be killed? But that had happened anyway. Hettinger's partner had been murdered before his eyes and it was only through a fluke of fate that Hettinger hadn't joined him in an early grave. That's what Steve was trying to tell her. To remind her. God damn you, Sloan, don’t be such a hero. I’m trying to save your life here.

But nobody's life would be saved that way. She needed to remember that. And if he could half kill himself to try to remind her, then the least she could do was not let him down. Determined now, she tightened her grip on her gun and renewed her focus on the ever-clearer figure before her.

Her opponent must have noticed the change in her resolve, must have understood the cause, because he spit some swear words that she couldn't recognize under his breath and thrust his gun barrel forward in a brutal jab. There was a sickening crack as it rebounded off of Steve's skull, a sharp, warning bark from the vigilant dog, a rush of movement.

It was only the briefest of seconds that his attention was on Steve and not her, but she took full advantage of it: This one’s for you, Steve, she thought, and swung and pulled the trigger.

There was a yelp, and a thump of flesh flattening along the ground. The narrow dark eyes, which she could just make out now, swung back to her immediately, but she already had her gun aimed and back in place. Except for the drag of Steve's slowing breathing, all was silent.

"That was not well done, Guapa," murmured her opponent reproachfully, yanking Steve back into sitting position with one hand on his collar while repositioning the barrel of the gun tightly against his bleeding temple with the other. "That dog cost me a lot of money. And he never did anything to you."

"I like to think of it as evening the odds." Cheryl was surprised by how hard it was to catch her breath, but at least her voice sounded cold and steady. "Now maybe we can deal."

The figure was very still - predatory - as crouched for action as the dog had been. "Maybe," he agreed at last. The sibilant hiss of his voice made her shiver. "Or maybe I just shoot your dog too. Heh?"

He gave Steve another shake and Cheryl’s heart pushed into her mouth as she watched the bloody head loll lifelessly against the pipes. She fought the urge to close her eyes to the sight - kept her gun straight and steady. Each abuse upped the ante, wearing away at Steve’s stamina and lessening his chances for survival, sloughing away at her resolve.

"Maybe." She was pleased to hear that her voice didn’t wobble. "But while you’re busy with that, maybe I’ll shoot you too. Maybe I’ll even shoot you before you can get a shot off."

The figure’s outline shifted to a swagger. "With that little popgun?" The chuckle was derisive this time. "No me lo digas. And, of course, he would still be a dead man. I don‘t think you want that."

Cheryl took a deep breath. "No. No, I don’t. But you’d be dead too. And I don’t think you want that, either."

"No." The head dipped in a light-hearted salute. "So then we - what? Wait? We continue our stand-off until either your cop friends arrive or he dies? An interesting contest. How much time do you suppose he has remaining now?"

He nudged Steve’s mangled arm with his foot, and Cheryl had to lock her teeth together to keep from screaming at him to stop. It was growing lighter in slow but steady increments, and she could almost see, rather than just sense, the spiteful, watchful amusement that settled over him. "So, Guapa. Who do you think will give in first? Him? Me? Or -" The flashing white smile again, devoid of any real humor. "…you?"

Cheryl kept her eyes firmly away from Steve and fixed on her target. "Well, it won’t be me." Where the HELL is my backup? "And it won’t be him - he’s survived worse. So I guess that leaves you."

This time the mocking chuckle sounded truly amused. "Ai, ai, ai…" He shook his head. "Beautiful and strong. Y policía? Such a waste."

"I guess it all depends on your point of view." Cheryl was fighting to distract herself from the ache in her back and arms, the burning that had settled there from holding the same position for too long. A small part of her brain wondered how long she would be able to last, but she thought of Steve and crushed it down ruthlessly. If he could hold on then so could she. So hold on, Steve.

"If you want to deal…" The voice was kinder this time, mellow, "…then here is what I propose. You put down your gun and come with me. We leave your dog for the policía to find. Maybe he even survives. What do you say?"

Cheryl was sorely tempted, her mind flipping rapidly through the possible scenarios. You’re kidding yourself, she reminded herself firmly, and hardened her heart. "I have a better idea. You put down your gun, and then when my cop friends (my really slow cop friends) get here, I don’t let them shoot you. And I put in a good word for you with the DA."

The man seemed to consider for a moment, then he shook his head sadly. "No…" he decided regretfully at last. "You see, I do not care to go to jail. I think maybe I take my chances here. Or maybe your dog will beg for his life? Maybe that would change your mind, heh?"

Cheryl felt the air freeze in her lungs. "I wouldn’t count on it," she forced out. "He’s not the begging kind. You know the sort. Proud."

"Ah." The head bobbed in solemn agreement. "This is too bad. But maybe I can change that. A man close to the end of his life can suddenly change his mind about many things."

Cheryl remained silent. Despite his cool nonchalance, she was knew her opponent’s need to make a move was becoming urgent, pushing him to do something reckless - or even deadly. If Steve died, he lost all value as a hostage and that would leave them in a pure shootout situation. Also, the longer they stalled, the more likely it became that her backup would arrive and throw his odds out of favor. He needed to make a move. And she needed to be ready for it. She sucked in her breath. "I don’t think so. You see, he’s the stubborn sort too."

"I see." The voice grew even softer. "Pity." He sank slowly into a crouch, the gun muzzle never budging from its position, jammed against the side of Steve’s head.

Cheryl tried to scare up some moisture in her arid mouth, her throat convulsing in a useless swallow. Now in order to keep her eyes on her adversary, she was forced to look at Steve, too. A thick dark stain gleaming wetly over his whole front made her want to shriek with panic. She tried to keep her gaze fixedly at her opponent’s eyes instead. She could just make them out as they drilled into hers, marble hard.

"So, how about you, Guapa? Maybe you’ll beg for his life?" The smile again, but this time, tight-lipped - watchful. "Or are you the proud sort too?"

Cheryl grabbed a breath. "Me? Oh, no." She tried to keep her mind from brooding over what he might be planning. "Our partnership wouldn’t work if we both were. Me, I’m the practical sort." She felt her finger tighten convulsively on the trigger, forced it to loosen. Relax, Cheryl. Relax, relax…

"Ah? Good." The head nodded slowly. "Practical is good. Practical - " The feral smiled beamed out. "Saves lives." He prodded Steve’s scalp with his weapon, stopped in shock when Steve groaned softly and turned his head away.

Cheryl felt her heart quicken. Good boy, Steve - you hang on.

The voice held a touch of grudging respect. "You did not lie. He is stubborn. A shame to see such a strong man die, eh?"

Cheryl tried not to be distracted by the urge to check Steve out, see how he was. "Yes," she breathed. "It would be a shame."

"Yes." He nodded pleasant agreement. Without warning, he yanked Steve’s damaged arm and twisted.

Steve’s roar of pain was weak, but there was something in the sound that filled Cheryl's ears and sliced directly through her stomach. She sighted down her weapon, looking for an opportunity to fire. It was another second before she realized that some of that yelling was actually coming from her.

She slammed her mouth shut, trying to stop the gun from shaking in her grip, noticed the narrow eyes resting on her. The smile was faint now, amused, triumphant. A rush of anger roared through her, and it was all she could do to stop herself from blowing his head off.

Steve slumped forward.

He loosened his grip on Steve’s arm, but didn’t let go. The gun never wavered. "So, what do you think?" he hissed softly. "What does a practical policía do now?"

"Let him go." Cheryl was shocked at how steady her voice sounded around the bile that was flooding her throat.

The genial head bob repeated itself. "I could do. And what would you do for me in return?"

"I’ve already told you that."

"Ai, yi." The head shake seemed disappointed this time. "And I have told you that that is not good enough. Perhaps you need more persuading…?" He gave Steve’s arm another twist, holding it this time.

"Stop it!" Cheryl knew the outcry was exactly what he was hoping for, but it flew from her mouth before she could swallow it.

"You can stop it." The voice was hard now, implacable. "What do you say, Guapa, are you ready to beg? To be practical?" His eyes seemed to burn into her, like dry ice.

Cheryl chewed her lips, trying to block out the choking gasps of Steve's struggles to breathe, to focus, to think. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.

He must have read her hesitation correctly, because he gave Steve’s arm another, more violent, yank. Steve jerked convulsively in his grip, threw his head back. It banged into his tormentor’s chin and for a second - just a second - his gun slipped. There was the sharp report of a pistol shot, and Cheryl felt her police special kick in her hands.

The mocking eyes changed, darkened with indignation and surprise. His gun stuttered, spraying the ground with bullets. Then he dropped forward like a stone.

Cheryl holstered her gun automatically, flew the short distance to the stack of pipes. She kicked the submachine gun out of reach and dropped to her knees, clawing at the body that now covered Steve. It was heavy and inert, and the small hole she could see in the back of his head confirmed her suspicions that he was dead. Her only regret was that he hadn’t suffered. She managed to roll him off of Steve, her mind puzzling for just an instant on the larger, more ragged hole that marked his forehead, then she forgot him and turned her attention to her partner. The color of his skin made her heart press suffocating against her breastbone.

"Steve?" She touched his cheek. It was clammy and cold, and she gently pushed the hair matted damply against his scalp away from his forehead, noticed that one side was caked with blood. Mark Sloan had told her once that head wounds could be deceptive - that they bled a lot and were often overlooked, so that the patient suffered dangerous blood loss before anyone took it seriously. She fumbled for something to staunch the flow. "Steve? I’m going to get you fixed up right away. Help should be on the way, and I’ll be right here until it comes." If not for the shallow rise and fall of Steve’s chest, she would have thought that she was too late.

She noticed that he was shivering and struggled out of her jacket. "You just take it easy…" She wondered what she had available to use to slow the bleeding from his arm. The sight of that tangled mess made her stomach roil warningly, but she knew she needed to halt blood loss. She considered trying to remove his leather jacket to get a better look at the injury, saw that the leather and the wound were too mixed up together for her amateur efforts and looked away, her throat moving spasmodically. Oh, God. Just - just hang on a little longer, Steve…she draped her jacket over him, folded it around him. Try to stay warm…I’m going to do everything I can…

She pushed on the arm underneath the jacket, used one sleeve to press against the wound on his forehead. If she lay across him, she could keep pressure on the arm and the temple at the same time and maybe keep him warm too…she could feel his heart beating underneath her, fast and faint. Come on, Steve…come on, come on, come on…the worst is over, I promise - you just need to stay with me now. I’m going to try calling for an ambulance…

She fumbled for her cell phone with her free hand, but something caught at her arm instead, pulled at her, lifting her - she struck out at it, flailing wildly. It had never occurred to her that there might be an accomplice after all this time, but he could just go ahead and shoot her then, because there was no way she was leaving Steve now…she clutched at the form beneath her…

"Come on, Banks - let him go - come on, honey, you did real good, you did great, but we gotta bus here now and they’re gonna take good care of him. You need to get outta the way…you need to let him go…come on, it's gonna be okay…"

That voice was vaguely familiar and she turned her head, caught a glimpse of a square block of chin shadowed with blue-black, a receding head of curly dark hair. She stared. Oh. Mallozzi, wasn’t it? She didn’t know him well, but she recognized him…

He gave her a watery smile and pulled her off of Steve and into his arms, holding her tight. "You did great, but it’s all over now. It’s over. Let these folks do their job while we sit over here…"

Suddenly, there seemed to be people everywhere. Cheryl let Mallozzi guide her away, confused and disoriented by the sudden change in circumstances. She sank into his comforting embrace for a moment, then sat up straight as the puzzling bullet wound suddenly made sense. "You shot him!"

"Well, not me, Withers, but yeah - that was us. But I’m betting you got a couple of plugs of your own in - we’ll know more later. Right now, just try and relax…"

Cheryl frowned more deeply, pushed away from him and smacked him in the chest. "Wait a minute! How long have you BEEN here?"

Mallozzi ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. "A little while."

Cheryl hit him again, harder this time, but he didn’t even flinch. "So what were you waiting for? To see how long it would take him to bleed to death? Or were you just enjoying the show?"

"Sh, sh -" He kneaded her back soothingly. "We were waiting - just like you - playing the percentages. We didn’t exactly have a rifle with night scopes along and we didn’t dare get too close in case that dog smelled us - could’ve ended up getting both you and Sloan shot to pieces. Taking out that dog really picked up the pace, by the way - good call."

"Well, thanks!" Without thinking, Cheryl hit him again. She couldn’t believe how furious she was, but it made her feel better to have someone to release her suppressed rage and terror on. "Thanks a whole lot! I‘m glad you approve!" Her voice rose higher still. "I hope you guys had a chance to sneak in a cigarette or a cup of coffee or something? While you were hanging out waiting?" She heard Mallozzi click his tongue, didn’t resist as he gently caught hold of her hands, embarrassment starting to creep over her. She must have been hitting him pretty hard.

"Hey, hey, c’mon - we called the SWAT guys - had the dog folks on the horn - we were lookin’ out for you. There would’ve been a regular army here in another couple of minutes, if everything hadn’t come to a head. Helluva situation. He wasn’t lying about those modified street guns, either, you know - really unstable. The way he was using it as a club, it’s a miracle there wasn’t lead flying all over the place."

The mental image made Cheryl shudder and she leaned into him again. She realized for the first time that she was sobbing and had been for some time. She closed her eyes, humiliated. Some cop she was. "I don’t know why I’m crying…" she choked.

She could hear the smile in Mallozzi’s voice. "Don’t worry about it - it’s just reaction. Hell, I feel like bawling myself."

She gave a small, damp laugh, dashed her hands at her eyes. "Don’t you dare tell him that I cried like some girl!"

A meaty hand patted her shoulder. "Aw, honey - give the guy a break! Makes a man’s day to think some dame trickled a few tears over him." His voice changed, sobered. "And his day could use a little making."

Cheryl turned her head at that to look over her shoulder and try to see what was going on. "How is he?" She sniffed, dabbed at her nose. "Is he all right? I want to see him - I want to ride in with him - can I ride in with him?" She stood up a little shakily and moved toward the area where two paramedics were busily at work and another plainclothes officer, one she recognized as Withers, was marking the scene. Mallozzi came with her, his arm still around her shoulders. It was dawn now, more light than shadow, and her first clear view of the puddles of blood made her stop dead for a second, her head suddenly light and buzzing.

Mallozzi squeezed her shoulders understandingly and spoke for her. "This is Detective Banks. She wants to know if she can ride along with her partner. Probably somebody should have a look at her too."

"I’m fine." Cheryl craned her neck, trying to really see Steve, but the busy paramedics blocked her view. "He’d want to go to Community General. Can you do that? Is that all right?"

"His Dad is some big mucky-muck doctor there." She heard Mallozzi’s voice from over her shoulder, saw the paramedic raise his eyebrows in response to some look from Mallozzi. "Might be - better if he’s there - y’know - just to be safe…"

The reason for the exchange of glances registered with Cheryl and she shook Mallozzi’s arm off. "He’s going to be fine!" she insisted fiercely. "Can I ride along? Is that all right? I want to stay with him."

"We were just going to load him. Have a seat in the ambulance and we’ll look you over on the way."

"I said I’m fine." It occurred to her that that sounded just like something Steve would say and, idiotically, she began to cry again.

A paramedic gripped her arm firmly and led her to the ambulance. She slid onto the bench seat without another word and watched them load Steve’s gurney. She could talk to them on the way - make sure they took him to Community General. That is, as long as that wouldn’t endanger his life.

She was busy trying to see Steve under all the equipment, to try and tell if he looked better or just cleaner, when a broad hand patted her knee. She glanced up into Mallozzi’s kind brown eyes. "Hang tough, Detective. We’ll meet you there."

She nodded silently, staring at him in surprise before sinking back against the wall behind her.

Well, son of a gun, she thought as the ambulance pulled away. He wasn’t kidding - he really does look like he wants to cry.

Mark was half aware of a dream already running out of his reach as he stirred awake. It took him another second to realize that what had woken him was the jangling ring of the telephone, and he glanced automatically at the clock. 5 am. He wasn’t due at the hospital for another three hours. He frowned uneasily at the telephone. There were only two reasons that it would ring at this hour. Either he was needed at the hospital, or…he tried to remember if he had heard Steve go out last night. No, but Steve was used to being quiet when he got a call.

The phone rang again - he sighed and reached for it, checked the caller ID. The hospital. A tingle of relief ran through him. Business as usual, then. He hit the "on" button.

"Dr. Sloan." The voice droned on for a couple of minutes, but he didn’t really hear anything after the first few words. He wanted to ask some questions, but somehow nothing would come out of his mouth. He rubbed at his forehead, trying to get his brain working.

He finally managed to say, "I’ll be right there," and hung up. The person on the other end may have finished talking or not - he wasn’t sure.

* ~~~~*~~~~*

Cheryl pressed her open palm against the glass and leaned closer, trying to see past her own reflection. Not that there was a whole lot to see. A small cubicle, crowded with equipment, a bed, a chair by the bed - and, of course, the occupants of the bed and chair. She would have loved to have gone inside for a better look, but ICU rules were very clear - one visitor at a time. And that honor, of course, belonged to Dr. Sloan.

Exasperated with herself, she turned her back to the glass and leaned that way instead. This was ridiculous anyway. There were no answers to be found here, and no doubt someone would come looking for her at any moment to tell her that she should be in bed. Well, she had been in bed, and that certainly hadn’t meant sleep. The sterile little hospital room had been peopled with a crowd of junkyard dogs and sneering auto part dealers and - well - a lot of things that she’d rather not even think about. It had been easier to take a little walk to help herself sleep. Just a coincidence that her feet had taken her here. A fluke. She knew, of course, that Sloan was alive. It just didn’t hurt to check. She peeked over her shoulder through the glass. Dr. Sloan was still sitting there, his hand resting on the bed rail, his eyes on the figure in the bed. She didn’t think that he had even shifted since she’d got there. She sighed, fingering the dainty sleeve of the robe she wore.

It was one of Amanda’s, one she kept at the hospital for emergencies, so it was a little shorter and frillier than what she would have chosen on her own. But Amanda had been kind to lend it. Everyone had been kind. It was really starting to get on her nerves.

She stole another glance at Dr. Sloan, looked hastily away. He was leaning forward now, stroking Steve’s forehead, and the sight of it brought those traitorous tears that had been dogging her all day springing back to her eyes. Damn. All these years she’d thought of herself as a toughened Homicide cop. Now it turned out she was actually just some goofy crybaby. She massaged her brow with her fingertips.

Dr. Sloan had been almost the first thing she had seen upon arriving at the hospital - the first thing after they had wheeled Steve away, fast, shouting orders back and forth. She had stood there helplessly, wondering what to do, when she had looked up to see him approaching. He had opened his mouth to speak to her then stopped, his mouth still at half mast, color draining from his face. She had stared, uncomprehending, then looked down.

It was the first time she realized that she was completely covered in blood - her arms, her hands, her clothing. She could almost watch Dr. Sloan’s mind make the leap that she wouldn’t be standing there if it were her own, saw his head swivel automatically, searching. She had pointed, and he had walked in that direction without another word. A short time later a nurse had appeared, though, and told her that Dr. Sloan had sent her to see if she wouldn’t like to come with her and get cleaned up? Remembering that he had taken the time to think of her in the midst of his distress almost started the tears again. Oh, damn it. She really had to stop this.

The nurse had offered her a clean pair of scrubs and Amanda had appeared with the loan of a robe. She had spoken in a kind, patient voice, the same voice everyone else seemed to be using toward her, as if she was something wounded and weak and pathetic. Bad enough that she felt weak and pathetic - she didn’t need everybody reminding her of it.

Instinctively, her eyes returned to Steve. It would be wonderful if she could talk to him. But of course that was crazy. Even if he had been conscious, he was hooked up to a respirator… hissing in irritation, she dabbed at her eyes with Amanda’s frilly sleeve.

Amanda had droned on in that calm, professional voice, asking her if there was someone she could stay with, someone who could come get her - no? Then they’d like to keep her here, just for the night. Cheryl had just stared at her. What kind of hospital was this, where they couldn’t tell the difference between someone who was really hurt, like Sloan, and someone like her, who wasn’t hurt at all? But the hospital was where she wanted to be right now, so she had held her peace. It was as good an excuse as any.

Amanda had continued more gently still, explaining that Dr. Ellis, the specialist who was working on Steve’s arm, had asked for as much information as she could give on what had happened. She was sorry to ask, she knew this was hard for her, but Mallozzi and Withers only had limited information, and it would be very helpful…

Cheryl had jerked uneasily. Couldn’t they just slap a bandage on or take stitches or whatever it was they did? Did they really have to have all the gory details? She had been about to make some smart remark to that effect when she’d noticed that Amanda’s hands were shaking.

Her irritation crumbled. How stupid of her not to realize that Amanda was upset too. Amanda had been friends with Steve much longer than Cheryl had partnered with him and she had the added disadvantage of being painfully aware of all the details of his condition - the ramifications and implications - something she was just as happy not to be privy to herself. Looking at her more closely she could see that, underneath the professional demeanor, Amanda was just barely keeping it together.

She'd forced herself to smile, tried to catch Amanda’s eyes. "There still a cop on the floor?"

Amanda had looked startled by the question. "Yes - there are several - a bunch came in to give blood."

Cheryl had nodded. "Get one in here and I’ll tell you everything I remember." Who are you kidding? Like you could forget. And, in response to Amanda’s questioning look, "Somebody might just as well take my statement at the same time. If I’m going to have to go through this thing in detail, I’d like to do it only once."

Amanda had flagged down an orderly and a short while later Carol Rydecker had entered the small examining room, sporting a fresh band aid on her inner arm and carrying a pad and a paper cup of juice. She’d given Cheryl a quick wink, and Cheryl’d responded with a wan smile. That little bit of false bravado seemed to shore up her spirits and she opened her mouth to start from the beginning, saw who had followed Carol in and closed it uneasily. She cleared her throat. "Dr. Sloan, I’m not sure you need to hear this," she protested.

Dr. Sloan offered her what was probably meant to be a smile, but in his grey, drawn face the effect was grotesque. "That’s all right, Cheryl. I think I should know."

Cheryl had considered objecting more forcefully, but she knew that look on his face, and even though she knew it from another face, experience had taught her that there would be no budging him. After a second, she nodded and began.

It helped, as it turned out: falling into the normal routine of reporting. It was only as she was approaching the end of her tale, speeding up a little to get it over with, that she happened to catch a glimpse of Dr. Sloan’s face and stammered to a stop. Her eyes met his for a moment, then he turned away to stare at something apparently very interesting on the blank wall. Cheryl had bit her lip, until Carol’s matter-of-fact voice prompted her back into motion. When she'd looked again for Dr. Sloan, he was gone.

Here, most probably. She peeped through the glass again. No, not here. Steve would have been in surgery then. That had seemed to take a long time. She closed her eyes.

They had thrown around all kinds of phrases…high-pressure irrigation…degree of crush…prophylactic…likelihood of infection….she had little idea what any of it meant. She only knew that nobody was smiling.

"How are you holding up?"

She was so surprised to hear Mark Sloan’s voice that she looked automatically through the glass, trying to place him at Steve’s bedside, before it occurred to her that he was standing next to her.

"Hi." She folded the robe more tightly around her, embarrassed. "How is he doing?"

"Oh…" Mark followed her eyes through the glass to the figure on the other side. "He’s holding his own. We’ll know more after a while…infection is a real possibility. Traumatic effects to the organs from blood loss. Too early to know for sure."

"Why the respirator? I mean, was there damage to his chest? Did the dog break a rib, or…"

"Oh. No." Mark rubbed at his chin. "There was some tearing and laceration from the…claws, of course, but…no internal injury. No, intubation is common treatment for patients with Steve’s level of hypovolemic shock…" He caught her expression and smiled a thin, apologetic smile. "Loss of blood volume. Hypovolemic shock can follow hemorrhagic…" He trailed off again, gestured helplessly. "Um - I guess blood loss is the best way to describe it."

Cheryl nodded, turning back to look through the glass. "I’m so sorry," she blurted at last.

"You are." She could hear the honest surprise in his voice, even though she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. "You are? What on earth for?"

Cheryl kept her eyes fixed on the scene on the other side of the glass. "If I could have done something sooner…something more definite…" She leaned her forehead into the glass. "Done something. He wouldn’t have had to have bled for so long. He could have had help sooner."

"From what I hear, you’re the reason he’s in there and not…" The voice trailed off again and she glanced at him sympathetically. He seemed to make a painful effort to collect himself, though his voice now sounded as if it was being squeezed out of him. "You kept your head, Cheryl. That probably saved both of your lives."

"It wasn’t me." She felt that warning prickle at her eyelids again and blinked hard to make it go away. "He, um - he reminded me not to give up my gun. He was so hurt, but he…" The tears were swimming in her eyes now, and she stopped abruptly before she could make a fool of herself.

"And you listened to him." She felt his arm go around her shoulders with a fatherly pat. "I guess that’s what makes you good partners."

"I don’t know." Cheryl sagged a little. "I was so scared. I was in danger of caving any minute. And that - creep - knew it and played me. He figured I was soft because I was a woman and so he played me."

She heard Dr. Sloan’s husky chuckle. "And do you think he wouldn’t have played you if you’d been a man? Just played you differently? I think he knew how to manipulate whoever was holding that gun, Cheryl. Besides, courage isn’t about not being afraid - it’s about what you do even though you’re afraid. At least you know you did what Steve wanted."

Cheryl blinked harder at the glass. "I never thought of it that way." Of course, the one person I’d really like to hear that from has a tube down his throat.

"Then maybe you should start."

"So how come I feel so - guilty? Like I did this to him?"

"Oh, well…" Mark sighed heavily. "I could give you a half dozen medical and psychological reasons, but simply put, you’re on emotional overload. It will all start to sift into proportion - gain a little perspective - over the next few weeks or months. And looking out for each other is part of the job - it’s only natural to feel guilty when something goes wrong, even when it was out of your control. A little like being a parent, I guess. Against all reason, you feel like you should have been able to prevent it."

Cheryl glanced at his face and reached up and rested her hand over the one on her shoulder. She felt a small, returning squeeze.

"And for what it’s worth…every time he leaves the house to go to work, I feel a little better knowing that it’s you who’s watching his back."

Oh, that did it. Cheryl released his hand to blot hastily at her eyes and nose with her sleeve again. Well, Amanda isn’t going to be wanting this robe back. "Thanks," she whispered.

"I wonder if you would mind doing me a favor?" She noticed that Dr. Sloan kept his eyes discreetly on the glass while she pulled herself together. "I need to see Dr. Ellis about Steve’s treatment, but I hate to leave him alone. Would you mind sitting with him until I get back?"

Cheryl knew that he was well aware that that was exactly why she was haunting the hall and she was so touched by his tact that it was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around him and hugging him. "I’d love to."

Another pat on her shoulder. "Thank you. I won’t be long."

"Yeah." She smiled wryly. "I know."

Cheryl didn’t linger in the hall, but slipped quietly into the glass cubicle. Immediately she was aware of a quiet symphony of sound - faint mechanical beeping and humming and whooshing, in a steady timpani. She looked at the machines - she had no idea what any of the flashing numbers meant, she only knew that they looked all wrong attached to her rugged, active partner. Oh, great. And now she was going to cry again.

She sat in Dr. Sloan’s abandoned chair and looked some more. Wires everywhere. It was hard to believe that just this morning…her eyes danced away, caught the clock. Check that. Yesterday morning.

"Hey, Partner." Probably he couldn’t hear her, but maybe the sound of her own voice would make her less conscious of the beep-hum-whoosh of all that life support equipment. "Captain Newman stopped by. Seems we tripped over something pretty big. That garage was chock-full of contraband weapons. And when they brought in the dogs and started digging under that stack of pipes, they found the remains of four bodies. To start. They’re still counting. Can’t tell exactly what was going on out there - it will take a while to put it together now that the perp’s dead -" she broke off abruptly, glanced at the clock again, the machines, the walls, struggling for her composure. "Anyway, I guess we’ll take that snitch a little more seriously in the future, huh?"

She leaned forward, resting her crossed arms on top of the bedrail, risking a closer look at his face. His eyes and cheeks had a sunken look, and a blackening bruise spread like a stain from under a square dressing near his hairline. She dropped her eyes to his hand instead, the one that wasn’t suspended over the bed in a contraption of some kind, noticed that she could make out every bone and tendon. She brushed her fingertips across the back of it anyway, careful to avoid all the tubes and wires. "Um - so - he, uh - the Captain - he gave blood. Said he figured since it seemed to be his people who were always draining the hospital’s supply, it was the least he could do. Bunch of the guys from the station donated - the Captain, Pulaski, George, Freeman, Rydecker…so if you wake up with a sudden urge to issue orders, chow down on pepperoni pizza, read Elmore Leonard, pick your teeth with the corner of your reports and wear bright coral lipstick, well, I guess you’ll know where it came from."

She covered the long, still hand with her own, massaging it gently with her thumb. "The important thing is to wake up. I don’t think your Dad plans to sleep until you do and it’s been almost twenty-four hours, so I’m sure he’d really appreciate it…" She swallowed carefully. "I know I’d really appreciate it…" Nothing. She shifted so that she could lean back against the wall, sighed soundlessly. "Your hand is really cold. Well, I guess that means no infection yet, at least."

There had been a lot of brisk and semi-hushed talk about that, about whether or not to add an antibiotic to the IV. She wasn’t sure exactly how it had turned out.

"Dr. Ellis, your doctor, is a specialist. She seems very nice. Your Dad seems to have a lot of faith in her. She’s not Jesse, of course, but he won’t be back until tomorrow and anyway, this isn’t his specialty. Amanda called and left a message for him so he wouldn’t just report to work and find out that way. Probably he‘ll make a pest of himself with poor Dr. Ellis, demanding all kinds of information, so you might need to wake up to call him off."

Come on, Steve, come on - I know you’re in there. Well, maybe it wasn’t fair to want him to wake up just because she couldn’t sleep. She cleared her throat. "Dr. Ellis says that the leather jacket probably saved your arm. Your Dad joked that he was going to get you another one right away, but I think he really means it. So if you want to have a say in what he picks out…"

Still nothing. She gave the cold hand a pat. "All right. You just rest, then. As long as you wake up eventually. I’m not interested in breaking in a new partner. Do you know how long it takes to get somebody to understand when you need to stop for a strawberry milkshake? I’ve got you broken in just the way I like you - I have no intention of starting over." She coughed to clear the fog from her voice, scrubbed a hand across her eyes.

"But, um, there is one thing that you said that I’ve been thinking about - remember how you trounced me on the range last week? You were really nasty-smug about that, by the way…" She smiled a little, remembering. "Well, I’ve decided that I need to put a little more time in there. See if I can’t get a score that kicks your ass next time. I want to feel a little more…a little more…deft -" She broke off suddenly, frowning in concentration. Hey. That felt like…it came again - a faint twitching under her hand. One of the machines started to beep a little faster.

"Steve?" She leaned forward eagerly, watching his face. His eyelids quivered. She breathed a joyous laugh. "C’mon, Steve - come on - you can do it…"

His brows twitched together and he made a feeble attempt to turn onto his side. The mechanism that kept his arm stabilized over the bed stopped him and his brow puckered. His eyes flickered open, trying to see. He stared at his arm, gave a grunt of pain through the respirator as he tried to shift it, then tried to lift his hand to reach the respirator mask.

Cheryl held his hand gently down. "No, no - don’t do that - you know they hate it when you do that - just take it easy. Relax. Your Dad’s not far away. I’ll call somebody. …"

She didn’t have to. The ICU nurse was there immediately, checking the machines and smiling. She noted Steve blinking at her and patted his shoulder comfortingly. "It’s nice to see you. You just rest for a minute and I’ll see if we can’t take that tube out."

"Dr. Sloan’s with Dr. Ellis," Cheryl added helpfully. She noticed Steve trying to turn his head to get a look at her and shifted closer so that he could see her more easily. "Hi, there."

He stared at her, then moved his eyes to try and take in the cubicle.

"Yeah. The hospital. I’m sorry."

His eyes returned to her, shut tightly and reopened, blinking. He looked troubled, and she finally realized that he was looking at her robe.

"Oh, yeah. It’s Amanda’s. Like it?"

The furrows in his brow deepened and she realized what was bothering him.

"Oh, no - I’m fine. I just figured that if you were going to malinger around here, then why should I hurry back to work?" His expression didn’t lighten, and she continued, more gently, "Really, Steve. I’m just here overnight, for no good reason that I can figure. I’m fine, the perp and the dog are dead, and the only one who needs a little TLC is you."

He watched her face, then seemed to relax a little.

"You had your Dad pretty scared, though. He’s going to be glad to see you awake. Okay, maybe I was a little bit scared, too." She watched his eyes, saw him struggling to remember, to put the pieces back in place. He turned his gaze back to the suspended arm, blinked at it. "Your arm is kind of a mess, but they’re taking care of it."

His eyes fluttered closed, then opened wide again. The beeping from the machine picked up pace. He tried to look at her, and she could see from his expression that he remembered what had happened.

"He’s dead," she repeated. "The dog, too. They brought the dog in for testing, rabies and things, but I could see if I could get his head for a trophy for you."

She watched the eyes narrow in amusement, chuckled in return. "Everything’s okay. They’re just putting the pieces together. The pieces of the crime scene, and the pieces of you."

Even behind the respirator, she could tell he was trying to smile. He let his eyes slide shut again, but she felt his hand turn under hers, saw him offer it to her, palm up. That tediously predictable flood of dampness pressed at her eyelids again, and she wrapped her hand around the offered palm and squeezed firmly, felt a faint, answering squeeze in return. The tears flooded over before she could stop them.

One must have dropped on Steve’s hand, because he opened lazy lids again and turned his head questioningly. The alarm in his eyes when he saw her had her blotting at her face with her sleeve again, waving a hand dismissively as she fought to get herself under control.

"I’m fine," she sniffled. "It’s just - it’s all right - I’ve been doing this all day."

He looked puzzled, then understanding and surprise, followed by a faint flicker of boyish pleasure, swept over his face.

She laughed out loud. "Yes, over you." Mallozzi, you weren‘t kidding. "And don’t you dare look smug!"

His eyes dropped shut again. The beeping had a steady, peaceful sound.

Cheryl smiled. "Oh, all right, go ahead and be a little smug. Just this once." It was beyond her to deny him anything right then anyway.

"Just as long as we’re agreed this will never, EVER leave this cubicle!"

Epilogue

"I can’t believe it! I can’t even go away for a couple of days without you acting as some over-sized dog’s over-sized chew toy! I mean, if you missed me so much, couldn‘t you just call or something?"

Mark paused outside the door to shake his head with a smile. The only thing more energetic than Jesse on a normal day was Jesse after a vacation.

"Miss you? You’ve got to be kidding."

Mark’s smile evaporated. Steve, on the other hand, sounded weary and drained. Well, what had he expected. Seventy-two hours was hardly enough time to bounce back. Still…he poked his head around the door with a smile of greeting.

"It’s the Demerol," Jesse continues briskly. "Demerol always makes you cranky."

"I am not cranky." The protest lacked some of Steve’s usual conviction. "Are you even supposed to be looking at that? You are not my doctor."

"You mean I’m not your attending. I am your doctor. And Dr. Ellis is very interested in having me consult. I’m making a note about the Demerol."

"Well, you gentlemen are certainly very lively this morning."

Jesse peeked over the chart he was scribbling on. "Hey, Mark. Just trying to do my bit. Little as it is appreciated." He tried to look longsuffering.

"Yeah, you’d think the lack of appreciation would discourage him, wouldn’t you? Morning, Dad."

"Oh, I don’t think that anything discourages Jesse, son." Mark moved farther into the room, trying to catch a glimpse of the chart himself. "So, what’s the prognosis, doctor?"

"Doesn’t look good. I foresee many cranky days ahead with a bad attitude."

"I’d like to see your attitude after fending off an attack dog that size." Steve considered Jesse through sleepy, narrowed lids. "Or, in your case, a Chihuahua."

Jesse whistled through his teeth, writing busily on the chart. "Cranky, bad attitude…" he murmured along as he wrote, "…and really, really harsh…"

Despite his words, Mark thought he looked secretly pleased. Probably, he thought wryly, because Steve had sounded almost like himself. A little more of Jesse‘s needling and things might be close to normal. "And your recommended course of treatment?"

Jesse grinned. "A change of scene. I think these four walls are starting to crowd him."

"Well, what a coincidence. I just happened to stop by to see if he wanted to try a stroll down the corridor."

Steve looked from one to the other. "You mean it? I actually get to take a walk?"

"Well, a small one." Mark went to the closet and pulled out a robe. "We’ll see how it goes."

"Anything, if I can just lower this arm for a while. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t turn over - I can barely move."

"Keeping it elevated is very important. And you don’t want to be rolling over on it anyway. Want to come, Jess?"

Jesse shook his head without looking up from the chart. "Naw - I'll wait here. It's important that I make sure that Dr. Ellis knows what she's in for."

"Just helpful to a fault," Steve groused, trying to shift forward. Mark leaned in to help him, taking a lidded cup from his hand and squinting at it curiously. He sniffed at the straw, noticed that Jesse had one too. "What on earth are you drinking?"

"Strawberry milkshake." Steve paused to catch his breath. "Cheryl brought them. It’s Friday, and we - stop for them every Friday. My doctor cum stand-up comedian - " he tossed Jesse a pallid version of his best glare and Jesse smiled serenely in return, " - said it was okay."

Mark was busy releasing his arm from the suspension equipment. "No, it’s a good choice, actually - nutritious and easy to swallow - it’s the real kind, isn’t it?"

"Oh, yeah." Steve shook his head. "All natural." He gave a small sigh of relief as Mark lowered his arm into a sling. "I’ve never been able to talk her into the other kind."

"Smart girl."

"Sentimental. She wanted to make a toast." Mark raised his brows questioningly and Steve shrugged, a little self consciously. "To still being alive."

Mark winced, then nodded, helping to guide his good arm into the robe sleeve. "She have to get to work?"

"Nope. She’s on administrative leave for another couple of days. She had a date with the police shrink. Ten visits before they’ll think about clearing her for active duty. Five for me." He sucked air in slowly as Mark helped him to dangle his legs over the side of the bed, sat for a second to let things settle, then released the breath in a rush. He tried to smile as he rubbed away the thin sheen of sweat that had sprung out all over his face. "Okay, that was a good workout," he breathed, with an attempt at lightness.

Mark frowned. "Maybe it’s too soon for this."

"No, no - I‘m fine, I‘m great…" He leaned heavily on Mark’s shoulder as they rose slowly, made a grab for the IV stand to take some of his weight. "Heck, I might even decide to jog."

"I thought - just as far as the atrium. So you could get a little sun." He noticed Steve’s white knuckled grip on the IV stand and slipped an arm around his waist.

"I’m okay," Steve insisted, sounding like he wasn’t quite sure he believed it himself.

"We’ll move nice and slow," Mark assured him, steering him toward the door. "Just to the atrium and back."

Steve judiciously chose to conserve his breath and just nodded.

They shuffled along the corridor at a pitiful pace, keeping close to the wall and out of the way of the hustling hospital staff. Steve stopped once and leaned into the wall for a short rest, but refused Mark’s offer to turn back.

"You promised me some sunshine," he puffed. "And I’m looking forward to it."

By the time they actually reached the atrium, Mark was watching his color with mounting concern. "Why don’t we just sit here and relax for a little while," he suggested, as he helped Steve lower himself onto one of the available chairs.

Steve couldn’t quite suppress a gasp of relief as he carefully leaned into the seat back. He nodded his thanks and haltingly lifted first one foot, then the other, onto the seat of another chair. One corner of his mouth twisted up into a smile. "You know, somehow I always thought that it would be me doing this for you," he quipped as he got comfortable.

"Oh, you’ll have your chance." Mark watched him, mentally running down a checklist of symptoms as he settled the wheeled IV stand close by. "Are you warm enough? Need anything?"

Steve shook his head, tilting his face to catch the sun and closing his eyes. "This is more like it."

Mark pulled a chair opposite. "Steve, you’ve only been in the hospital for three days and you’ve been out of your head for most of it. You can’t tell me that you’re really bored with your room already!"

Steve smiled. "I can tell where I am, even when I’m out of it. It’s like being shut in a box."

Mark flinched at the disturbing image that created, noticed that Steve was unconsciously cradling his injured elbow against his chest with his good hand. "Arm bothering you?"

Steve made a small, noncommittal sound. "To be honest, I think I feel my head more."

"Well, that’s not surprising. You took quite a blow. It’s a wonder you didn’t bleed to death from that wound, even without -" Suddenly not liking the sound of his own conversation, he petered off, searching for something else to talk about. "So," he ventured at last. "Have you decided about seeing the police psychiatrist?"

Steve chuckled. "You make it sound like Newman gave me an choice. I go and get cleared for active duty, mentally and physically, or I end up driving a desk."

"I see." Mark nodded. "I do think it’s a good idea though, don’t you?"

Steve yawned and shrugged without opening his eyes. "I don’t know. I thought it was a little excessive at first - until I heard what sounded like a chain rattling in the hospital corridor and nearly jumped through the ceiling. Was just an orderly with a cart as it turned out, but it made me realize I’d better do something or risk climbing on a chair every time our neighbor walks her poodle past the house."

Mark’s lips twitched under his mustache. "Bad for your cop image."

Steve nodded sagely. "Very bad."

"Well, I don’t think you’ll be sorry."

Steve squinted his eyes open. "It’ll do Cheryl good, anyhow. She told me how you looked out for her. I appreciate it, Dad. She had a tough time. And I know you must have been - er - a little distracted at the time."

"Hm." Mark smiled faintly. "Now, what on earth might have been distracting me? And Cheryl and I leaned on each other, I’d say." He reached over and patted one of the slippered feet resting on the chair lightly.

Steve scratched delicately at the bandage on his bad arm. "I think it’s harder, in a way, on the ones left standing. I remember from Vietnam - we called them the walking wounded. They were hurt too, but they had to keep going, to help carry the more seriously wounded off the field, to keep dodging bullets - they were the ones who didn’t get to lie down."

Mark peered thoughtfully at him. "I don’t think you were exactly enjoying a lie down," he offered quietly.

"No, I know." Steve sighed, stretching out as far as he could. "I’m just glad it’s over."

Mark privately suspected that it was far from over, that the shadows would linger for some time to come, but he didn’t see anything to be gained in expressing his fears, so he let it pass. Instead he said, "Want something? A drink, maybe?"

Steve brightened hopefully. "Coffee?"

Mark looked apologetic. "Sorry. Too dehydrating. How about lemonade?"

Steve sighed resignedly. "Sure."

Mark rose, then hesitated. "Don’t go wandering off -"

Steve closed his eyes again, soaking in the sun. "Now, where would I go? Or, to be more accurate, hobble?"

Mark glanced over his shoulder only once on the way to the small snack counter. He paid for two large lemonades, then turned to tote them back to the chairs in their sunny corner. He put his down on his chair and held to the other one out to Steve.

Steve’s eyes were still closed and his lips were slightly parted. He almost looked as though he hadn’t moved since Mark had left. Mark was about to remark on it when he paused, looking more closely.

"Steve…?" He spoke softly, just in case. No answer. Mark shook his head. Despite the activity buzzing around the atrium, Steve was sound asleep. He’d better wake him and get him back to his room so that he could lie down and rest comfortably.

He reached over to give his shoulder a gentle shake, then hesitated. He looked so peaceful. It seemed a shame to disturb him. And the sunlight was so pleasant…

He sat looking for a little longer, thinking, then made a decision. He moved his chair until it was right next to Steve’s and lifted his own feet, stretching them out to share the chair-footrest. He arranged Steve’s lemonade where it could be close at hand if he awoke, but not so close so that he would knock it over in his sleep, and then sipped a long, sweet draught of his own drink.

It wasn’t quiet here, precisely, but it had its own kind of peace. He enjoyed the sounds of buzz and bustle that made up the hospital in motion - the jangling of carts, the scraps of medical conversation, the underlying, echo-y voice of the PA system. To him, they meant that all was right with the world. They meant home.

He settled back to enjoy the sights and sounds around him, turning every now and then to watch the reassuring rise and fall of his son’s chest. He smiled. What was it Steve had said that he and Cheryl had toasted to? To still being alive? A fine toast indeed. He could drink to that.

Quietly, he leaned over and bumped his plastic tumbler against Steve’s, lightly, so as not to disturb him.

To staying alive, son, he saluted silently. For a very, very long time to come.

To life.