Note: A different perspective on the ending of Hot Shot. Some dialogue is from the episode.
Thanks to WriterJC for the beta read and suggestions.

I see the world in numbers for eight hours every day. Well, "hear it in numbers" is more accurate. It's strange to only know someone by their voice. I suppose it's like listening to the same DJ on the radio every day. You know their voice, their personality, but you'd never know it if you walked past them on the street.

I know them all, and yet I don't really know them. I know their badge numbers but not their names. There's 4021 and 4220. They're a pair of jokers, and I love when I get them on my shift. They have to advise control of any stop they make, so they'll call and say, "Show us at 806 West 8th Street. Reporting a number seven with olives and extra cheese."

Technically, they could get in trouble for that, but I'll never report them. I know they sometimes go out with 3852, but there doesn't seem to be any particular pattern to that. I know she'll stop off at 1200 East California Boulevard between interviews, and I'd bet that she'd love for that old Thai place in Pasadena to be closer to the office.

Then, there's 3695. You can tell a lot about a person by the sound of their voice in a crisis. He's always strong, always making sure everyone else has back-up. Sometimes I wonder who's watching *his* back. He stops by 1200 East California Boulevard way more than 3852, more than anyone. What is it that attracts agents to that campus? I'm sure it's not the chalk dust and the lectures. That's where I wish I knew a bit more about what happens in the field each day.

I walked in the door and set my purse on the desk. Time for another shift. Sighing, I sat down at the computer.

"How's the shift going tonight?" I asked Kathy.

She's got the shift before me today, and she's always good at keeping me updated. I think she's as curious as I am about the people on the other side of the radio. We've got a monthly pool going on how many times 4021 and 4220 will call in funny lines about food, and we've both got our guesses on what 3695 looks like. I say tall, dark and handsome; Kathy's plumping for a rugged ex-surfer.

"Might get interesting," she said. "4021, 4220 and 3852 are out on an op."

"Without 3695?" My eyebrows shot up.

"Apparently. Haven't heard from him yet." She shrugged.

I nodded and pulled on my headset.

"Control operator three online," I said into the built-in microphone.

Then, I waited. If it's a quiet night, there's a lot of waiting. I can listen in to team radio chatter if I want, just to monitor the situation. Turning up the frequency on 3852, I listened for a moment.

"All right, he's 20 minutes late," 3852 said.

A different voice came on—4220. "Wait, hold on a second. I see somebody walking towards her."

"I got him," said 3852. "David, you see him?"

"Yeah, I got him." Now that was 4021.

My own radio beeped, and I quickly switched over the channel.

"3695 to control."

"3695, go."

"Yeah, patch me through to my team, would you?"

"3695, stand by."

It hadn't sounded like they were done a moment ago, but I checked my screen anyway. They were all still marked as unreachable and hadn't checked in yet.

"3695, your team is in active pursuit and is unable to respond."

"All right. Copy that," he said. "Look, show me at 355 Parker Street. Roger that?"

"Roger that, 3695."

My fingers flew across the keyboard.

"I'm showing that as the residence of Lyndsey Fuller."

"Copy that."

I wanted to ask, "Why are you there alone? Who's backing you up?" But that's not my job, and agents don't generally appreciate an operator second-guessing their decisions.

My radio crackled again.

"3695 to control."

I took a deep breath. "3695, go."

"Request back-up. Assault in progress. I want my team and LAPD rolling, Code 3 ASAP."

His voice was low, like he was trying not to be overheard.

"3695, copy. Assault in progress. 355 Parker Street. Units rolling, Code 3." My heart jumped, and I was amazed to hear how calm my own voice—weirdly detached from my body— sounded as I confirmed the transmission and sent out the alert.

Hitting a red button on my console, I had time to take one breath before a voice chirped in my ear, "LAPD dispatch."

"This is FBI control. I need units rolling to 355 Parker Street. Agent without back-up, assault in progress. Code 3."

"Roger that. Sending two units. ETA three minutes."

I looked at my screen again. 4021 and 4220 had reported in to another operator with a Code 5—escorting a suspect to central processing. 3852 was headed back to headquarters. I pressed my call button.

"3852, this is control."

"This is 3852. What's the situation?"

She sounded curious, and I wondered if she knew that 3695 had gone out without back-up.

"Code 3, 355 Parker Street. 3695 has requested back-up."

"Copy that, control. Is 3695 alone?"

"LAPD units rolling, ETA two and a half minutes."

"I'm headed there now. ETA five minutes."

I sat back in my office chair. If you can't handle the tough stuff, you don't become an FBI dispatcher. But some days, I can't help worrying. Right now, every second felt like an hour, and I'd already done all I could to help. When the next call came, it only made things worse.

"Agent… down. I need a medic." He sounded out of breath, and his voice was thin.

My eyes widened, and my heart started thumping a marathon. "Roger that 3695, please confirm status."

There was nothing. No reply.

"3695, please respond."

Before I knew it, my finger was on the red button again. I alerted LAPD dispatch and pushed an EMS crew out to 355 Parker Street, and then it was time to call 3852.

"3852, this is control. I have a situation update."

"Control, this is 3852. What happened?"

I didn't want to say it, but I had to spit it out.

"We have a report of an agent down from 3695. No follow-up transmission."

"Damn," she breathed quietly. "I'm almost there."

"I have LAPD on the scene and EMS approaching."

"Copy that."

Then, it was quiet, and it stayed quiet for the rest of my shift. I watched the second hand tick by on the wall clock, and each tick seemed to take hours. There were no radio reports. Any EMS reports would go through their own dispatcher, not us. Finally, it was 4 a.m., the end of my shift. Before I hung up my headset, I chanced one bit of rule-breaking.

"EMS dispatch, this is FBI control."

"I'm reading you, control. What's the situation?" asked a friendly voice.

"Just looking for a status report on our agent transported around 9 p.m. Can you confirm patient status and destination hospital?" I bit my lip.

"Copy that, one moment."

The radio crackled, filling the silence.

"Control, I have that information. EMS transported Special Agent Don Eppes unconscious to UCLA Medical Center. You'll have to contact the hospital for the rest."

"Thanks." Pulling off the headset, I grabbed my purse from the desk and hurried out through security.

I shouldn't be here. I really shouldn't. The faint smell of disinfectant tickled my nose as the automatic doors whooshed open. I stepped into the bright lights of the hospital lobby. It's against bureau policy to even find out he's here. But I'm here. I have to do this. I have to be sure.

I walked up to the reception desk. Holding up my ID badge, I said, "I'm here from the FBI to check on our agent, Don Eppes, admitted sometime between 9 and 10 p.m."

It felt weird to call him anything other than 3695. The curly-haired woman at the desk squinted at my card, then turned to her computer and quickly typed in something.

My stomach churned, and I kept telling myself that it was sort of true. I was from the FBI, and I did want to check on him. And she didn't ask if it was an official visit. What they don't know can't hurt, right?

"Room 204. It's not visiting hours, but for law enforcement, we can make an exception."

I nodded and walked over to the elevator and stepped inside. A moment later, I was on the right floor, and I walked past patient rooms, looking for 204. Then, it was right in front of me. The door was closed, but there was a tall window next to the door, looking into the room. I stepped closer and peeked inside.

A man with spiky dark hair lay in the bed with his eyes closed. An IV tube trailed out of his pale hand and up to a clear plastic bag hanging on a stand next to the bed. Despite the closed door, I could hear the rhythmic beat of a heart monitor. This was 3695. I could feel tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. This man always sounded so strong, so confident on the radio, and here he was, so vulnerable. Sitting in a chair, holding his other hand, was a smaller man with dark ringlet curls and a 5 o'clock shadow. It looked like he was quietly talking to 3695, even though 3695 was clearly asleep. I stared at the bed, willing him to open his eyes, to look like he always sounded on the radio. Clearly my psychic powers were on the fritz, because nothing changed.

I glanced back at the other man and suddenly realized I was being observed as well. My scalp prickled, and my stomach dropped down to the lobby. Busted. He let go of 3695's hand, gently setting it back on the bed, and walked over to the door.

Looking back down the corridor, I thought about running away. However, that would definitely attract more attention than I wanted. Confrontation it was, then. He opened the door and looked at me.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you. It's just that…" I paused. "I work at the FBI, and I knew he'd been brought in here. I just had to see for myself that he was going to be OK."

He tilted his head to one side. "You work at the FBI? I don't remember seeing you before."

I took a step back.

"You're an agent? No offense, but you don't look like an agent," I said.

The corners of his mouth turned up in a half-smile.

"No, I'm a professor at Cal Sci, but I consult for the FBI all the time. My name is Charlie- Don's my brother. I thought I knew just about everyone's face in the office."

A lightbulb went on in my brain.

"That's why they're always stopping at the campus. It's to see you!"

His brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms.

"You didn't know that? But I thought you said you worked with Don."

I looked at the floor. "I do work at the FBI, and I do work with thr—Don, but not in the same office. I'm a radio dispatcher. I was on dispatch tonight."

I glanced back up at him and saw that he was staring at me, wide-eyed.

"You mean, you heard everything that happened?" he said, almost in a whisper.

I held up a hand. "Not everything, but… I took his call for back-up. I knew he was going to stop an assault in progress, and I knew his back-up was three minutes out. And when he reported himself as an agent down, and I couldn't get him back on the wire…"

I trailed off as his face seemed to get several shades whiter.

"He reported himself down? No one was there with him?"

Damn.

"You didn't know?"

Charlie gestured to the bed. "Don hasn't woken up yet. The suspect stuck him with a hot shot of morphine. He didn't get all of it in, but Don's probably going to be floating on a morphine high for hours. I thought Megan was there with him."

"Megan? You must mean 3852. She was on her way, but she was further away than LAPD."

"3852? What's that?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, I know all the agents by their badge numbers. That's how they call in to me. It's weird for me to call him Don." I pointed to the bed. "To me, he's 3695."

He smiled. "To me, he's Don. My big brother—the most fearless person I know."

I reached out and touched his shoulder. "I hear him reporting in all the time, and he definitely sounds like someone I'd want to have my back anytime." I paused. "But… I worry about him. I'm not really supposed to. They tell us to be detached and cool when we handle our calls. He sounds so strong, but he's always so worried about helping everyone else…"

Charlie was nodding. "He'd rather put the safety of his team above his own safety. Not that he's reckless, but he just wants to take care of everyone. He feels responsible."

I leaned back against the doorframe. "I'm glad he's got someone else worrying about him besides me."

"It drives him nuts when we do, but yeah." Charlie smiled faintly.

"Is it just you here with him?"

He shook his head. "My dad's downstairs trying to find some drinkable coffee. Don's team wanted to be here, but I told them it would be better if they stopped by in a few hours. Besides, they had all the paperwork and case details to wrap up."

Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets and looked back toward the bed. "Thinking of Don all alone in that house with Yates after him… I know he can take care of himself, and obviously, he did, but…"

"Obviously?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Yeah. Even with all that morphine in him, Don got the guy—five shots to the chest."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and shook my head. "I was so afraid the back-up wouldn't get there in time. I didn't know what had happened, just that he was going in to stop an assault and then, he was down."

I peeked around Charlie's shoulder at 3695. "That's why I had to come here, to prove it to myself that he'd be all right."

"It's going to be a few hours at least until he wakes up, but you can stay if you want." Charlie looked at me with wide, earnest eyes.

"No, I really should go," I said, backing out of the doorway. "But do me a favor? Make sure I hear his voice again on the radio soon."

He grinned ear to ear at that. "Roger that."