"Freeze!" Cameron shouted at Ivan Green, the man Kirsten had fingered as the murderer of a nineteen-year-old woman currently lying in their corpse cassette. He'd gone along with Fisher and Kirsten to a little deli on the south side of town to catch Green at work, and as soon as they'd identified themselves as NSA and LAPD, the huge lumbering man behind the counter had made a run for the door.
"Freeze?" Kirsten murmured as Cameron bolted out after him, and then she was on his heels. "Cameron, you're not even armed!"
Fisher was nowhere to be seen, but Kirsten knew from experience that he had better intuition than any of them; it was possible he'd gone out the back door to run parallel through the alley, or had cut across the street. It didn't matter, though; Fisher wasn't her concern right now. Her concern was Cameron, running half-cocked as he'd been lately but still at full speed, pursuing a man twice his size and – as they knew all too well – capable of very bad things.
"Stop!" Cameron shouted to Green, and Kirsten shouted the same thing to Cameron. They were losing the man anyway, and she felt a brief moment of relief when Cameron stopped running, pushed his hands through his hair, and looked around. "You," he said suddenly, rushing up to a biker who was nudging up the kickstand on his motorcycle. Cameron flashed his NSA badge, "I need to commandeer this vehicle."
"What? No, you don't," Kirsten said, shaking her head as she caught. To the biker, she added, "No, he doesn't."
Ignoring her, Cameron pressed, "Sir, I need your help catching a murderer. Your bike will be returned to you, I promise."
Looking between the two of them, then down at the badge that Cameron was still holding very close to his face, the biker sighed and grumbled but pushed away from the seat and let the younger man on. "Cameron, please don't do this," Kirsten begged, desperate, as she looked up the crowded street. She could barely make out Green, who was still running, through the cars and fellow pedestrians.
"Hey, Stretch," he tucked his badge back into his pocket and flashed her that winning smile as he pressed the clutch in. "I'll be fine."
"I'm fine," Cameron said grumpily as a nurse pushed his wheelchair through the hospital lobby.
"Broken tibia, two fractured tarsals, bruised rib, minor concussion, and multiple skin lacerations," Camille rattled off. "Oh yeah, champ, you're fine."
Cameron held up a finger – one of the few uninjured parts of himself – and twitched it from side to side. "Eh eh, superficial skin lacerations. Scrapes, really. No big deal."
Kirsten, who flanked his other side, frowned and adjusted his crutches in her arms. "You crashed a motorcycle into a truck; you're lucky you weren't killed." The automatic doors slid open before them, depositing them into the afternoon heat, and Kirsten handed the crutches to Cameron while the nurse left with the chair and Camille went to get the car.
A few moments passed in silence before Cameron said, "That truck was in a tow-away zone." Kirsten shot him a glare that shut him up, and they fell back into silence until Camille pulled the car around and Kirsten helped their injured team member into the back seat, then slid in next to him. The entire way back to the office, she kept glancing at the cast on his leg and foot, the bandages on his head and arms – watched his eyes for any unusual dilation, his chest for any disruptive breathing, his hands for any shaking. All of these daredevil antics may have been part of his new lease on life, but Kirsten was sure they were going to be the death of her.
"Where are we going?" Cameron's voice shook her from her thoughts.
Camille glanced at him in the rearview mirror, brow furrowed, "Your apartment?"
He shook his head, "No way. I want to sit in on Fisher's interview with Green. You said Fisher surprised him from the alleyway, right?"
Kirsten and Camille exchanged a look, and the former took a breath before saying, "Green's dead. He hung himself in his holding cell before he could be interrogated."
There was a long pause, and then, "We've got to stitch into him. He might have had a partner or a boss or—"
"Cameron," Camille interrupted, "we've already thought of that. We have him set up and we're stitching in later this afternoon."
"Then you'll need me to run sync."
Kirsten was already shaking her head, "Camille's going to call it this time; you need to go home and rest."
"I need to work. I need to fix this."
"What can you do that Camille can't?"
"I can interpret what you see; I can talk you through the confusing parts."
Kirsten couldn't deny that Cameron had a certain talent for grounding her when she was stitched in, but she knew Camille was competent and the worst case scenario was a little extra time interpreting the visions she received. "Give Camille some credit," she said, and her roommate looked back to give her a quick, flattered smile. "We'll manage just fine."
"If you take me home," Cameron said with a note of finality in his voice, "I'll just take a cab to Jade Fog."
"I told you we should have let them give him one more morphine drip before we left," Camille grumbled, flicking the blinker and turning in the direction of the lab. "Cam, you sure you don't want to take one of those nice painkillers and take a little nappy-poo?"
He didn't respond. He was too busy answering Kirsten's glare with one of his own – a power struggle that lasted the six miles to Jade Fog, when Kirsten had to drop her gaze to help him out of the car and onto his crutches, though he insisted he could do it on his own. He couldn't. He fumbled to get the soft padding beneath his armpits and swing his unusable leg out of the car at the same time and almost face-planted onto the concrete, and only then would he let the stitcher steady him long enough to get his bearings. She walked slowly, keeping pace as he planted the rubber tips of his crutches and then swung himself forward, and let him into the elevator first before following and situating herself right at his side, still very aware and very protective of his every move.
Maggie was on them before the elevator door had even finished opening. "What is Cameron doing here?" She demanded as they stepped out, "He is supposed to be at home, resting."
"What can we say, boss?" Camille brushed past her and dropped her bag under Linus's desk, patting his shoulder as he swung around to face his injured friend. "The boy is stubborn."
"Moreso than Kirsten or yourself?" Maggie challenged, then rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in a "never-mind" gesture, turning and walking up to the raised walkway, where Fisher stood.
Kirsten reluctantly let Linus and Camille take over watchdog duties as she went to change into her stitch suit and checked in with Ayo to register her baseline vitals. When she finally detached herself from the suctions and wires and made her way back to her friends, Cameron was slouched in the chair behind his desk, a thin layer of sweat visible on his forehead and lip, skin pale and eyes pained. She pushed between Camille and Linus and demanded to know what happened. "He says it's nothing," Linus said, "says he's fine."
"I am fine," Cameron shot back, though his voice was weak.
"Dude, just tell us what hurts, or I'm gonna give you one more option," Camille said, balling up her fist and waving it at him threateningly.
Kirsten grabbed Camille's forearm and pushed it down, then took one more step toward Cameron, studying him in that uncanny way she studied a new piece of code, or an unfamiliar emotion. When they'd first met, that look had made Cameron uncomfortable – scared, even – but now he recognized the beauty of her brain behind it, spinning circles of endless contingencies before arriving on the only logical conclusion. "Being on crutches is too hard on your bruised rib," she surmised. "We should get you a wheelchair."
"I'm not using a wheelchair," Cameron told her.
"It's the logical decision," she argued. "You'll be off your leg, and you won't be swinging your lower body around and forcing pressure on your ribs."
"I'm not," he repeated, slower, "using a wheelchair." He struggled to push himself up in his seat and then pulled himself closer to his station, face set and determined to get to work.
Kirsten stared at him a while longer before, unable to think of any other argument to make that could be more persuasive than the logic she'd already offered him, turned on her naked heel and stomped toward the fish tank. She heard a crackle of static as the com in her ear sprung to life, and she heard Cameron's voice – forced stronger than it actually was, she could tell – call out the go/no-gos. "Com check," he finished, "Stretch, one-two, one-two."
"You shouldn't be here," she sing-songed in reply.
He ignored her. "Five minutes on the clock. Initiate stitch neurosync on my mark. Three, two, one – we can rebuild you, we can make you stronger – mark!" And then Kirsten was plunged into what turned out to be the very simple mind of Ivan Green. She was out with two minutes to spare, giving Fisher the name of the man who'd hired Green to take out Gloria Isthelton when she stumbled upon a drug ring running out of the back of a tire shop. Three hundred dollars and an XBOX One – that was all it had taken for the fine folks of O'Brien's Tires to convince Ivan Green to take a life.
"Jared O'Brien," Camille was reading from her tablet as Kirsten bounced and sat up in the tepid water. "Owner and operator with a rap sheet as long as one of Fishy's gorilla arms."
"Hey," the detective protested.
"Calls 'em like I sees 'em."
He sighed and started down the steps to the main floor, checking his watch. "Well, it's still normal business hours; what do you say we swing by and see what four tires and an eight-ball go for?"
"I'm in," Cameron said quickly, situating his crutches under him and pushing off from his chair.
"The only place you're going to be in, is bed," Maggie said, stepping in front of him. "I'll go with Fisher to the tire shop, the rest of you get him home. If necessary," her voice took a sharp tone, "use force."
Kirsten opened the takeout boxes and arranged them on the coffee table in front of Cameron, who – after much ear-bending and arm-twisting – had finally agreed to leave the office. They were back at his loft now, with him laying with his back against the arm of the couch and his leg spread out on the plush cushions. His face was still pale, clammy, but he was obstinate in his insistence that he was fine-just-fine. "Plates," he requested as Kirsten dropped a pair of chopsticks in his lap, "can we please use plates?"
"No, because I'm the one that has to clean up," she told him simply, then handed him the container of almond chicken. He frowned deeply, like a cartoon character, into the little cardboard box before finally slipping the chopsticks out of their red sheath and plucking a piece out. Kirsten let out a snort and quickly stifled it, but Cameron heard and raised an eyebrow, "What's so funny?"
She shook her head. "It's just… I've been so mad at you because of all these stupid, unnecessary risks you've been taking. And then I'm here with you, and you won't even eat Chinese food out of the container."
"I'm eating it," he protested around a mouthful of chicken.
"Not before you pulled a mommy's-making-me-eat-lima-beans face," she said under her breath. He made another face, this one complete with eyes rolled back and tongue stuck out, and then struggled forward toward the coffee table, wincing as his torso shifted. Kirsten threw out her arm to stop him, "What are you doing?"
"Beef and broccoli," he said, confused.
"I'll get it." She took the carton from his hand and put it back on the table, exchanging it for the one he was seeking. "You need to just…stay still."
"Ace," he groaned, words heavy with protest, "you've got to stop treating me like an invalid."
She stabbed her chopsticks into the lo mien and sat back, turning her head so she could look at him. "I'm not," she said slowly, softly, hoping he might understand. "I'm treating you like someone who ran headlong. Into a truck. On a motorcycle. Yesterday morning."
He watched her, mentally tracing the worry lines that formed at the corners of her mouth and eyes. He knew his lifestyle lately had been wearing on her – she'd told him as much, if he read between the lines – but he couldn't bring himself to slow down, to stop. Not when he was finally living the life he'd spent so long avoiding, just because he was afraid of the consequences. Several minutes passed in silence, with him picking through the beef and broccoli, and her staring, arms crossed, straight ahead at the black screen of the TV. "Hey," Cameron finally said in a near whisper, and she swung her head around to look at him again. He offered his container to her, grinning, head cocked to one side, "Truce?"
Despite herself, she smirked and took it. "Truce," she agreed, retrieving her own chopsticks and handing him the General Tso. They turned on the TV, watched a few episodes of some silly sitcom that Cameron loved, and polished off their meal by cracking their fortune cookies together and reading the poorly-written declarations within. "Okay," Kirsten said after she'd collected all of the empty containers and thrown them away. She came back with a glass of water, an orange bottle, and a cold pack. "Time for painkillers."
"I don't need them," he said, but they both knew he was lying. As the evening progressed, every time he laughed at something on TV it was followed with a wince and a quiet groan, and every time he moved his leg he hissed like someone was letting the air out of him. It took little convincing to get him to take the two thick pills she shook out of the bottle.
She moved from the couch to the chair on his other side, closer to his torso, and had him raise his arm. "This should help," she said, laying the cold compress over his bruised rib. Then, so off topic it made his head swim a little – or maybe that was the pills – she asked, "Can I use your shower?"
"Um, sure?" He was startled into answering. "But, what's wrong with yours?"
She furrowed her brow at this idiotic question. "It would be a little silly for me to go all the way home to take a shower and then come right back, wouldn't it?"
"You're…staying the night."
"Of course," she said simply, rising from her seat and putting her hands on her hips. "You just got out of the hospital this afternoon; you're not used to being banged up like this."
"Hey, remember when I was a kid and they cracked my chest open and played the xylophone on my heart valves?"
She rolled her eyes, "That's different. Do you mind if I borrow something to sleep in?" And just like that, the topic was closed for discussion. He nodded resignedly and watched her disappear through his bedroom and into the bathroom beyond, and a moment later he heard the shower spring to life. He tried to distract himself with TV but thoughts of Kirsten, the woman he had feelings for, exposed underneath his own running water sent shivers through his body and it was difficult to concentrate. Again, it could have just been the pills, but he doubted it.
He tried to busy himself by pushing off of the couch and draping himself over one crutch, using his free arm to pull a sheet from the linen trunk and drape it over the couch so he would have somewhere to sleep. She'd probably try to convince him to sleep in his bed, but he wouldn't let her; there was no added benefit to sleeping in a bed. It wouldn't heal him any faster, and it certainly wouldn't do anything for his peace of mind to have her tossing and turning on his lumpy leather couch while he slept on a luxury mattress.
"Ah," he couldn't help but let out a sharp cry as a stabbing pain hit him in the chest, and for a brief, delirious moment, he thought his heart was crapping out on him again. He was almost relieved when he realized it was just his rib protesting against his movements, though it didn't stop his panting and groaning as he lowered himself back down to a sitting position. His shout must have alarmed Kirsten, because a moment later she came running into the room wrapped in one of his blue terrycloth towels, dripping, hair still frothy with shampoo and eyes wide.
"What happened?" She asked urgently, kneeling beside him as best she could while still keeping covered, looking him up and down as if searching for new injuries. Then she saw the sheet. "Cameron, what were you thinking? You need to be resting, not playing housemaid."
He wanted to argue. Really he did. But with only a precariously tucked piece of fabric between him and a naked Kirsten, he couldn't form a coherent thought and knew he needed her to go away before he said or did something especially stupid. "You're right," he said in a choked voice, "I'm sorry."
She sighed and wiped at her forehead, catching some of the shampoo that threatened to drip into her eyes. Cameron knew it was his, but somehow it smelled different on her – sweeter, more alluring. "Will you please just stay sitting until I finish?" She said, almost begging.
"Okay," he promised, then accepted the compress she picked up from the floor and handed to him. She eyed cautiously before heading back to the shower, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake. She was in and out in five minutes, rushing through just in case he decided to run a marathon or build a log cabin while she was gone, and she slipped into a pair of sweatpants and one of the larger button-downs in his closet. When she made it back to the living room, she was happy to find he was in the exact same position she'd left him, though now his head was lolling from side to side and he was blinking rapidly at the television. "Cameron?"
"Have I ever told you—" he said, a little too loudly, "—that I don't like pain meds? They made you all…" He raised his hands, studying them like they were foreign to him, and then waved them around a little by way of explanation.
Kirsten stifled a laugh. "So I guess you're starting to feel them?"
"My tongue feels too big for my head," he answered, then let out a little giggle, "But I'm not even sure I have a leg anymore."
She shook her head good-naturedly and went over to him. "Come on, doofus, let's get you to bed."
"I was going to insist on sleeping on the couch," he said, then slouched sideways so he was lying on the cushions. "All gentlemanly, you know. I had a good argument," he nodded, cheek smooshed against the couch, "but now I can't remember what it was."
"Then it must not have been that good," Kirsten countered, wrapping her arms around his shoulders so she could gently pull him back into an upright position, and then help him stand. "Come on. We've got to get you changed before you completely go off the deep end."
"Ooh, you're right," his voice was suddenly very worried. "I was never a very good swimmer. Mom didn't want me to swim – she worried it would be too much cardio." He paused, and then, "I was born with a bum heart, you know."
"I know, Cameron." Concerned about how he would manage on his own, Kirsten opted to give him one crutch and then put his other arm over her neck so she could help him hobble along to his room. She eased him down so he could sit on the bed, and then pulled a pair of shorts (all he could wear for the time being) and a t-shirt out of his dresser and tossed them to him. She excused herself so he could change and told him she'd be right outside the door if he needed anything, then listened to him struggle for a good ten minutes before he called her back in. He was sweating again, having managed to work of his current shorts but not to put on the new ones. That wasn't the issue – he usually wore his boxers to bed anyway. The real issue was trying to pull off his long-sleeved shirt, which had a neck too tight to sleep in. Every time he tried to pull it off, his ribs ached in protest and helplessness was starting to creep in.
He frowned to Kirsten as she entered, and gave his shirt a tug. "I know I said I wasn't an invalid," he slurred slightly, "but I could use a hand." If he'd been in his right mind, there's no way he would have let her undress him, both as a matter of pride and of attraction, but he was uncomfortable and hot from exertion and he just wanted the stupid thing off.
She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then put on her problem-solving face and said, "All right. Can you lift your arms at least?" He did, with a few pained twitches, manage to raise them so his elbows were at chest level. Slowly, methodically, Kristen gripped the hem and started pulling it up, knuckles brushing over Cameron's stomach and making him giggle again. She ignored this and continued, taking hold of each arm and easing them through the holes before finally pulling the shirt over his head and discarding it in a hamper in the corner. She frowned at the cuts on his chest from the accident, the dark purple-black bruises, and the straight, raised scar from his surgery. Even though it happened so long ago, when they were both children, she couldn't help but wish she'd been there; maybe she could have helped in some way, though she knew there was nothing a little girl could do in that situation.
"You're staring," Cameron said. When she looked up, he was watching her with heavy-lidded amusement. His voice took on a quieter tone, "Why are you staring?"
"I just—" She was surprised to find her voice thick with emotions she hadn't known she was feeling – fear, despair, worry, to name a few. "I just realized how bad it was, and how bad it could have been," she whispered, eyes welling. A single tear fell and then Cameron's arms were around her, cradling her close to his chest in a way that she was sure must hurt him, but he did it anyway. "You have to be more careful," she said pleadingly, trying to swallow back the tears but they came without permission. "Please, Cameron, just tell me you'll take it easy until you're healed up. If something happened to you…"
"Shh," he cooed, pressing his face into her damp hair, "I know, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," he told her sincerely. She sniffled and nodded against his bare chest, relishing in the warmth there for a moment longer before pulling back, wiping her eyes, clearing her throat, and picking up his t-shirt. "Business as usual?" He smiled, but it was watery and filled with guilt.
"Business as usual," she confirmed, forcing a laugh. She slipped the t-shirt over his head and then his arms, and helped him recline against the pillows. She pulled his covers up and brought him a glass of water and his bottle of pills, in case he needed them in the night. "If you need me," she told him as she propped his broken leg up on a couple of throw pillows from the couch, "just holler."
He was barely awake anymore, but he opened his eyes enough to give her one of those charming looks that used to irritate her, but she now found endearing. "You could stay with me, you know." He freed one arm from the blanket with some difficulty and gave the empty space next to him a lazy pat. "Plenty of room. Memory foam mattress. Comfy-comfy-comfy."
"I'm sure you need your space," she started to decline when he cut her off.
"What, you think I'm going to be doing a lot of tossing and turning in my condition?" He smiled up at her, "Come on, Stretch; I'll sleep better with you here."
She feigned more reluctance than she actually felt and crossed to the other side of the bed, sliding beneath the covers and laying as close to him as she dared. If she was being honest, she would have liked to lay her head on his chest and throw her arm across his stomach, curl her leg over his, but his injuries and her caution kept her from doing so. Instead she turned on her side to face him, offered up a little smile when she saw he was already falling asleep, and closed her eyes. A minute later, she felt his hand reach out and take hers, drawing it over until it rested, still twined with his, on his stomach, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. She didn't open her eyes, but inched over until she just barely brushed his side. She listened to his breath even out as sleep fully took him, felt the gentle rise and fall of his breaths in their clasped hands, smelled the sweet scent of his laundry detergent all around them, and when she finally fell asleep, she fell asleep smiling.