H Is For Hands
by Jules

Hands on his back as he tried to struggle back to his feet. Strong fingers burrowing deeply into his left shoulder. Don's head was still swimming from the brutal knock he'd just received from behind. And suddenly, a white hot pain exploded in his neck and he cried out, tried to get away from it. Every nerve ending in his body protested against the sudden assault and his fight or flight instinct went into overdrive.

Don managed to grasp the offending hand and turn around, fought back against his attacker. But an icy cold was starting to spread out from his neck, down into his shoulder and arm, upwards into his jaw, leaving an impossible hot and paralyzing weight in its wake. His head was swimming even worse now, a slow eddy gathering speed with every move he made. In the glaring light, he saw the syringe only inches from his face and the pieces fell together slowly. Yates had stuck him. Morphine. He didn't have much time left until he'd be out for the count.

He balled his right fist and threw a punch, feeling the reverberations all through his arm as he made contact. And then, he was free and tumbling backwards. He turned around and the carpeted floor came rushing nearer and everything looked and sounded strangely warped and out of focus. Just before he crashed down, his hands flew out and grasped--

The cool handle of his handgun felt reassuring in his palm and he tightened his grip. Automatic response, almost instinct by now, after years and years of training. Always on duty, always ready to draw to protect or defend himself or others. He tensed his arm muscles against the weight that still tried to pull him under. Barely 35 ounces, a little more than just 2 pounds, but it felt heavy like a mountain. His vision was blurring further. Center mass, no time to aim.

Odd facts were floating through his mind. 5.5 pounds of standard trigger pull, half an inch deep until... Technical data. Numbers. Wrong brother. His index finger tightened, once, twice, three times. The report of the shots echoed loudly inside the room and his head, like ripples on the surface of a lake after a pebble dropped through, spiraling outwards, widening until they flattened out again. Another one. And another.

Rolling himself on his side, Don felt a heavy weight crashing next to him onto the floor, more ripples, softer ones, running through the floorboards beneath. His world was spinning wildly now, colors bleeding together and his stomach did a slow flip as cold sweat broke out over his entire body. The sharp pain in his head and neck had dulled down to throbbing. He shakily raised his left arm to his face, angling the microphone on his jacket cuff so he could speak into it. He needed help, he... Backup. A medic. The gun was so heavy in his hands, so heavy, but he kept it directed into Yates' direction, because maybe--

Warm fingers closing over his, pulling the gun from out of his grasp, his fingers minutely tightening in a reflex. A cool hand turning his face slightly, cupping his jawline.

"Don?"

He blinked against the kaleidoscopic images dancing in front of his eyes, multicolored blobs morphing into each other, and wondered why Megan sounded like she was on drugs. No, no, that was wrong, she sounded to him as if he was on drugs. Yeah. Which he was.

"Did he stick you?"

A finger brushed over his cheekbone. He tried to say yes, but his mouth seemed suddenly drier than the Sahara. He concentrated and managed a very weak nod before he let his eyes flutter shut again.

"Stay awake, Don."

David's voice and strong knuckles rubbing over his sternum. He winced and tried to turn away. The cool hands on his face were back, holding his head and more hands came down and he was turned onto his side.

Better. Somehow, he couldn't say why, but better. But the fog was getting thicker still.

There was a heap of clothes lying behind David. No, not just clothes... Yates, he'd shot Yates and he wasn't moving anymore and no one knelt by him so he was probably...

I've killed a man.

God, it was hard to think, to move, to...

"Don, keep breathing."

The knuckles were back, rubbing uncomfortably at his chest. But even his head was spinning slower now. Everything was slowing down further, losing momentum, until... un--

Unfamiliar fingers pried at his eyelids and then, a blinding light exploded in his eyes, hammering its way deep into his skull. He moaned and felt his stomach roll as he tried to move his head away. There was something covering his face and he could taste cool and dry air on his tongue.

Oxygen.

"Pressure's coming up. Agent Eppes? Don, can you hear me?"

Someone patted his cheek and he turned his head to the other side, swallowing at the rising bile in his throat. The steady, rocking sensation didn't help much either. The way his head now lay aggravated the tender spot on the side of his skull, above his ear. He opened his eyes again, blinked against the harsh overhead lighting.

Ambulance. I'm in an ambulance.

"Sick," he muttered.

The hands were back, on his shoulders, another set by his hips, and he was turned onto his side. Someone pulled the mask away and something cool was pressed against his chin just as the first contractions hit his stomach and he started to retch. It seemed to go on for ages, but finally his body had nothing left to expel and he sank back into the thin cushion.

"You done?"

He nodded faintly, his eyelids already drooping again. Everything still sounded warped, but not as bad as before. Which was good, because before was very weird. Now, if he just could remember what had exactly happened... that would be the clue. That would be... would--

There was a warm hand encircling his and an equally warm thumb was drawing slow circles over his pulse point. He smiled without opening his eyes.

"Hey, Dad," he whispered, "they shouldn't have called you."

"Well," his father answered in a very measured voice, "they did."

Don worked on blinking his eyes open, fighting against gravity and weariness and finally succeeded. Alan looked... strange, oddly composed. As if...

"Hey, I'm okay." Don let his eyes fall shut again. "Really."

He was. The doctor had been by earlier, explaining it to him. They'd given him something. N... something. An antidote to counteract the morphine. He just had to sleep off the residual effects now. They'd keep him overnight to monitor his vitals and by morning, everything would be fine. Well, almost. He hadn't even tried to think about Yates yet.

"Go back to sleep, huh?"

Don concentrated on that steadily circulating thumb and the magic it possessed. It always had. When he was sick as a child. And even now. Almost a bit humiliating, but it wasn't like he was going to talk about it to anyone. Not even his father.

It took some effort, but he managed to open his eyes once more.

In the dim light of the hospital room, Alan looked very weary as he stared out of the window and it hit Don suddenly. Death had been very close today. How close was clearly visible in his father's face.

Don thought about saying something, but the pull of sleep was much stronger than he could resist. He floated away with it and tightened his fingers weakly while the soft stroking on his wrist never stopped.

-The End-