Steve was drifting peacefully, feeling no pain. That was strange, he thought detachedly, he didn't think there'd been enough methadone in his last dose to achieve this effect. He tried to lift his right hand, but his arm was too heavy. He swam a little closer to the surface, to realize there was an IV drip connected to his arm, and started to panic. Was Morgan dumping the stuff into him intravenously now? Straining, he slowly became aware of the familiar beeps and chirps of hospital machinery, sounds he had been around his entire life. Oddly reassured, he relaxed and slid back under again.

He roused a little later to increasing discomfort in his right arm and shoulder, becoming gradually more and more aware of the throbbing of his wounds as he crawled back to consciousness. A man sat dozing next to his bed; when he blinked to clear his vision, he recognized his father. He licked dry lips and tried to shape the word; it took him three tries before he succeeded in forcing the sound through his equally dry throat.

"Dad?"

Mark woke instantly at the soft call. "I'm here, son," he replied, a world of meaning in the simple words.

Steve tried again to lift his right hand, but it weighed too much. He needed to touch his father's arm, to reassure himself that the apparition was real. He'd just have to reach over with his left hand, he thought, and discovered his left arm wouldn't work properly either. Puzzled, he rolled his head towards the recalcitrant body part, and went still as the sight of the handcuffs securing his bandaged wrist to the bed rail registered. Panic flared in his eyes. "Dad --"

Heartsore, Mark reached for his son's right hand. "Steve, take it easy --"

Steve found his voice, which was still there, albeit strained. "Take it easy? Dad, what's going on? Why am I cuffed to the bed?" His tone had a slightly hysterical edge. "Where am I, anyway?" he demanded, glancing around wildly. "This isn't Community General."

"No, it isn't, son," Mark responded in what he hoped was a sufficiently soothing tone. "You lost a lot of blood, and Fairview was the closest hospital."

His bewildered son succeeded in connecting loss of blood with his aching shoulder, but -- "What's that got to do with lockdown, Dad?" he asked, still frantically. "I can see the cop sitting outside the door." Hadn't he been through enough? Starting to get truly upset, he yanked on the handcuffs hard enough to shake the bed, rattling the metal loudly.

"Steve, please, calm down. You're in no shape for this sort of thing." Mark automatically checked on the injured arm.

Panting, Steve forced his jangled nerves to settle down. Although he wasn't about to admit it aloud, the brief moment of violence had not helped his shoulder any. Payment for foolish melodramatics, he thought with wry detachment, and rolled his head back to meet his father's worried eyes. "Dad, if I promise to behave myself, will you please tell me what's happened?" he begged plaintively.

Stalling, Mark asked, "What do you remember last?"

Steve pondered briefly. "I remember -- I felt bullets slamming into my arm. And -- I think -- Jesse --" he trailed off uncertainly.

Mark experienced a brief pang that Steve didn't remember seeing him, then felt ashamed. His son had been badly hurt; that he even remembered Jesse's presence was amazing.

"And -- I thought I was dreaming -- but it was you, Dad, wasn't it?" Steve queried, words tumbling over themselves in a rush. "I did see you!" he announced with a small air of triumph; then his face crumpled into lines of distress. "Oh, God, Dad, you were there when I -- you saw --?"

Mark said gently, "We got there after you'd been shot. And I understand what you felt you had to do. You don't need to feel ashamed."

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, relieved that he wouldn't yet have to tell his father about the ice-self which had been in control at the time. He wasn't sure he was ready to let the man he loved and honored know that he was capable of such a thing. He opened his eyes and met his father's squarely. "Thanks, Dad. Not one of my better moments." He lay quietly for a moment, then the awkward left hand presented an unwelcome reminder. "Dad?" He tugged on the cuffs lightly. "This?"

Mark sighed. "Promise me you'll lie quietly and not jump around."

"I promise."

"And you'll take my word for it that Jim Newman is doing everything he can."

Alarm trickled into Steve's brain, but he willed himself to cooperate. "I promise."

"And I swear to you we will get to the bottom of it."

Steve couldn't take any more. "Dad! I promise! Tell me!"

Mark's face was grave. "You've been charged with attempted murder, ag assault and battery --"

Steve's voice was savagely incredulous. "On Morgan?" He moved his head restlessly. "Dad, no jury on earth would possibly --"

"That's not all, son."

Disbelief washed over Steve's face. "What else could there possibly be? He's after me for ruining his precious research study?"

"I wish," Mark said heavily. "Listen to me, Steve. They're making the same charges concerning one of the nurses."

His son looked at him blankly. "You've totally lost me now, Dad."

A new voice broke in as Captain Newman strode into the room. "A nurse by the name of Rachel Pauling."

Steve's face went white. "Rachel? What happened?" Then it sank in. "Wait a minute. You said I --" he stopped dead, staring at the other men in shock. Their expressions were grave, and totally unenlightening. "Dad, I really, really don't understand."

James Newman stared down at the man he privately considered the best cop under his command, one of the best on the entire force, looking for some indication of the monster he would have had to have been to have attacked Rachel Pauling so brutally. He saw none, and hoped he hadn't lost the ability to see. "Rachel Pauling," he stated, choosing his words carefully, "was found barely alive the same day you attempted your hostile takeover. She had been badly beaten. Her jaw and cheekbone were broken, as were several ribs, both wrists, her left knee and her collarbone. She also sustained internal injuries, including a damaged kidney and a ruptured spleen."

Steve closed his eyes. "Oh, God. Rachel." He opened them again. "But I still don't understand why I --"

"Steve," his father interrupted, hating to say the words, "she was found in your room." As his son stared at him in increasing horror, he added, "Her blood was all over your -- restraints." He paused, trying to get the ugly taste of the word out of his mouth, and reached for his son's hand.

Steve winced away from his father's touch. "I didn't touch her! That son of a bitch did it, did that to her!" He yanked savagely at the handcuffs, rapidly losing any willingness to be reasonable. "How can you let them do this to me, Dad?" he accused, tugging at them again and again until Newman reached down and stopped him, immobilizing his hand.

"Son --"

Steve ignored his father's attempts to calm him, still fighting the captain's grip. "She took care of me!" he raged, his voice rising. "She saved me from going totally out of my mind! How can you even tolerate such a ridiculous charge, let alone think I --"

"Lieutenant!" barked Newman, hoping to distract him enough to be able to regain some sense of composure. "That's enough!"

Taken by surprise, Steve reacted automatically to the order, and shut up instinctively, waiting.

Newman hooked a chair over with his foot and sat down heavily, not yet ready to let go of Steve's arm. "Listen, Steve. We don't put any credence in the reality of these charges, at least where you're concerned. But I know George Silver, and I can assure you he will not take kindly to interference with his investigation. He's a fair man, and a thorough one. He won't stop until he's sure of his results."

Mouth dry with apprehension, Steve muttered, "Somehow, I don't find that very reassuring."

Newman frowned. "Steve, you're going to have to trust me here. I can't help you except to assist in the investigation as much as George will let me. Although the evidence right now is mostly circumstantial, you know as well as I do that it's still dangerous in the absence of anything else. Until we can remove the cloud hanging over your head, you need to do as you're told and stay with the program."

Steve moved restlessly. His arm and shoulder were starting to really hurt, and he was rapidly becoming aware of a growing nausea suspiciously reminiscent of methadone withdrawal. "What about getting me out of here?" he asked with resignation.

Mark and Newman traded uncomfortable looks, which exchange was not lost on the man in the hospital bed. "Dad -- I want to go home."

His father sighed. "We don't think the judge is going to be likely to grant bail, son."

The strain of the last few minutes, on top of the last three months, came to a head. Enraged, Steve unwisely bolted upward, and as rapidly subsided while he waited for the fire in his arm to go out. "Why the hell not?" His eyes blazed blue fury.

Watching his son's struggle to control his rage and pain, Mark felt his heart ache. "Steve -- there's no good way to tell you this. Rachel Pauling almost died from her injuries. She's still not out of the woods. And -- if she survives, she's going to need extensive reconstructive surgery just to put her face back together again, not to mention any subsequent cosmetic procedures." He stopped, unable to bear the misery in his son's eyes.

"God help me," Steve whispered. "I did this to her."

Mark's head snapped up. "WHAT?"

Steve closed his eyes, trying to fight back the increasing nausea. "I -- she came to my room, told me that she had found out what Morgan was doing. She wanted to help me, -- dear God, I let her. She couldn't do anything to interfere with the drugs." He was still for a while. "Dad -- is there any water?"

Silently, his father poured him some water and helped him to sit up enough to sip it. After he had settled again, he continued, still somewhat hoarsely, "She wanted to help. I wasn't thinking straight, or I'd have discouraged her. I never thought she'd get hurt."

"Son," Mark said softly, "I understand that. Tell me what happened."

"I -- I asked her to call you, told her you'd know what to do, would take care of everything." The quiet voice had acquired a ragged edge. "You weren't there, but Jesse was, and you sent him up here. Then -- Dad, I don't know what happened then," he said despairingly. "The last time I saw her, she was sitting with me -- staying with me, helping me through the attacks --"

"Attacks?" his father asked.

Steve couldn't make himself meet those gentle eyes. "Cramps, nausea, body tremors -- methadone withdrawal." Before either of his listeners could say anything, he rushed on. "We were talking, oh, God, I started to tell her how I felt about her --" He didn't want to go there. Not yet. "I finally fell asleep, and she must have left before I woke up, because she wasn't there. That was the last time I saw her." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Bastard told me he'd reassigned her." Both hands clenched spasmodically as he remembered.

Newman gave him a long, searching look. "Steve, believe me. We will do everything possible to convince the judge. But don't get your hopes up too high. Ms. Pauling's in a bad way."

Steve looked up at him miserably. "May I see her?"

Newman glanced at Mark, who shrugged. "I'd have to cuff you to the wheelchair and escort you myself."

Steve winced, but nodded. "I understand. I want to see her."

He almost wished he hadn't. The nausea rumbling around in his belly threatened to come roiling upwards at the sight of the injured woman. She was sleeping, essentially comatose, tubes in her arms, tubes helping her breathe, shattered ribs and face bandaged heavily. He could only imagine the actual damage. "Oh, God," he managed. "Rachel, I'm so sorry." He started instinctively to reach for her hand, then pulled back when he realized what he was doing. With the possible exception of Morgan, he was the last person she was going to want to have anywhere near her. He swallowed. "Take me back to my room, please," he requested, unable to meet Newman's eyes.

Steve had hoped to face the intensifying symptoms alone, sure that his father and the captain would have found other things to do for a while. No such luck, he realized unhappily, as he was wheeled back into his room. He squirmed under his father's narrowed stare as Mark helped him back into bed and Newman refastened the handcuffs. Although the captain then left, Mark remained, still watching his son dispassionately. Finally, Steve couldn't bear both the sickness and his father's calm but silent observation. "What is it, Dad?" he asked reluctantly.

Mark contemplated his restive son a little longer. "Tell me about the 'attacks', Steve," he requested in a tone which brooked no argument, and Steve knew it.

He sighed. There was no easy way to do it. "Dad --" He stopped, then forced himself to continue. "Dad -- I'm addicted to methadone."

His father said nothing, waiting.

This was too damned hard. He said, as rapidly as he could manage, "Morgan was experimenting with methadone and PCP. I've had I don't know how much of both pumped into my system. I do know I've had withdrawal symptoms several times when Morgan withheld the meth, then he'd increase the dosage again." He took a deep breath and made himself say it. "I've got them now, Dad."

Mark stirred. "You're having them now?"

He nodded, a lump in his throat. "Yeah. Mostly nausea -- the cramps and other stuff usually start later. I thought I was going to toss my cookies when I -- when I saw Rachel." A pause. "It's getting worse." Another pause; then, hating himself, he added, "Dad, I -- I need some --" He stopped, unable to speak or look his father in the eyes, and closed his own, unable to bear the expression he knew was on his father's face.

A gentle hand on his cheek, brushing away the dampness of tears he hadn't realized had escaped. "Oh, my son," his father said, his voice full of sorrow and love, "what baggage have you decided to lug about now?"

His eyes stung, but he still didn't dare open them. "Dad --"

"Steve, look at me."

Like a child, he shook his head mutely. Mark refused to accept it. "Steven Sloan, I mean it. Open your eyes and look at me."

His name, spoken in that manner and tone, allowed for no insubordination. He obeyed reluctantly. His father was blurry until he blinked the moisture away. Slowly, he raised his eyes, deathly afraid of what he would see, until his father's face entered his line of sight, and nearly lost all control again at the love and pride showing there so clearly. "Dad --" he tried again, his voice cracking.

Mark put a quieting hand on his shoulder. "Son, I have always loved you. You have always, always, made me proud of you. I couldn't ask for a better gift than a son like you."

He couldn't take it. "Dad -- please, don't --"

"Shh. Listen to me. That's not going to change because of an unfortunate byproduct of your run-in with Wyler and Morgan. We'll deal with the addiction, each day as it comes. Just promise me you'll stick with whichever program you choose."

Steve's throat was tight. "I promise, Dad."

"Good. In the meantime," Mark added, shrewdly noting the tightening of his son's eyes which he suspected coincided with an attack, "we'll see about getting you something to deal with these symptoms long enough to let your shoulder heal and get you on your feet."

Although the thought was paramount in both minds, neither man mentioned the fact that, once he was on his feet, Steve would most likely be in jail.