Disclaimer: "Scarecrow and Mrs. King" is the property of Warner Bros. and Shoot the Moon Productions. I enjoy borrowing their characters for entertainment purposes only.

"What the hell did you do to her," an aggrieved Lee bellowed at Francine across the full length of the bullpen.

Noticing that he didn't appear to be too steady on his feet, and suspecting that he'd signed himself out of the hospital despite his doctor's advice, she decided to try to mollify him. She strode across the room to where he stood glowering at her. His right arm was in a sling, and he was clenching his left hand so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"Billy isn't in at the moment, we can talk in his office," she coaxed him, while gently tugging him by his left hand. "I get the impression that this is going to be one of those conversations that we won't want overheard by everyone in the room."

"It's no skin off me, but I doubt that you'll want everyone to hear the details of what you did to Amanda," he countered, without making any effort to lower his voice.

"I should have guessed that this would be about her," the blonde agent observed as she shoved her co-worker into the empty office ahead of her. Following him in, she closed the door, and then turned on him. "Sit down before you fall over, and then tell me what it is that you think that I did to your precious Amanda?"

"She's not 'my Amanda', but she has become a good friend, and she never would have resigned if you hadn't said or done something awful to her."

"Well, well," Francine said smugly, seating herself behind Billy's desk, while Lee towered over her, his fingers splayed out on the blotter. "I was wondering why she was in here with Billy for so long earlier…I guess she's finally realized that she isn't cut out for this line of work."

"And you had nothing to do with her coming to that conclusion," he challenged in a normal speaking voice, as he slowly backed away from the desk.

"No, she was her usual eager-beaver self this morning, and then later when I was driving her to the hospital to see you she was eerily quiet, so we didn't say much to each other the whole time."

"Okay, so it isn't your fault, but I'm damn well going to find out who is to blame?"

He spun on his heel, jostling the gunshot wound in his right shoulder, fought off the wave of pain and nausea that threatened to engulf him, and took off before Francine could stop him.

Less than an hour later, he parked his car a few houses down from Amanda's, and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. There was a throbbing pain in the back of his head, and he was experiencing waves of mild dizziness, but he was a man on a mission. He had to find out why she'd left him-no, she hadn't left him he reasoned because you can't leave somebody unless you're involved with them, and they were just good friends, nothing more. He raised his head cautiously, took a deep steadying breath, and slowly got out of the car.

As he made his way across her darkened backyard, he hoped to catch her attention while she was washing the dinner dishes. Half way across the grassy expanse, he tripped over one of the boys' carelessly discarded toys, and uttered a string of expletives more loudly than he'd intended to, thus alerting Amanda to his presence. She quickly dried her hands and rushed outside to him.

They met as he stumbled closer to his usual spot beneath the kitchen window.

"Lee, are you okay, you look awful," she fussed, while taking hold of his uninjured arm to stabilize him. "You're supposed to be in the hospital, I know you hate it there, but you shouldn't have left there without a good reason, which I doubt that you have.

He was momentarily winded just from listening to her mini-ramble, yet as soon as she finished, he jumped right in.

"I probably would still be in the hospital if you'd been there when I woke up the way you usually are, but you weren't and so I was worried about you."

"I'm alright, I didn't mean to worry you, and I did stay at the hospital until I was sure that you'd make a full recovery. The doctor said that you would need at least forty-eight hours of bed rest, and I'm pretty sure that that doesn't include passing out in my yard. C'mon, you're coming in the house with me right this minute."

"I can't go in there," he argued, struggling to stand up straighter, "your family is in there."

"I'm home alone, the boys are spending the night at a friend's house, and Mother is out on a date. You are coming inside because I refuse to be forced to call 911 when you keel over out here…your presence in my yard would be too difficult to explain. Now, move," she urged, as he found himself being strong-armed by a woman for the second time in the same evening.

She led him into the house, and gingerly helped him to sit down at the kitchen table. As he settled himself, she tried to covertly check to see if he was bleeding from either his shoulder wound or the gash in the back of his scalp which he'd sustained when he was thrown to the warehouse's concrete floor by the force of the gunshot. Satisfied that he hadn't aggravated his injuries, she hurried to get him a glass of orange juice and something to eat.

"Amanda."

His eyes tried to follow her as she rushed around the room, but he was having trouble focusing on her.

"Hmmm," she replied distractedly, as she concentrated on preparing him a healthy snack.

"Amanda…A-man-da, stop! We need to talk."

"About what," she asked with as much feigned nonchalance as she could muster.

Her mouth was dry, her heart was raising, and she desperately wanted to avoid answering the question that she was certain that he'd come to ask.