Time

Carlton had staked his post out almost from the moment they'd arrived. Out of the way, unobtrusive, yet with a clear view of everything and readily available to answer any questions directed his way as officer of record. In addition to maintaining distance, he also sat quietly—a state that likely struck her as extremely out of character given the circumstances, or rather, would if she were actually aware of his continued presence—rapidly filling out the necessary paperwork. Technically, his shift was over and he wanted to be able to simply drop the forms off and sign the hell out on the way to… wherever she'd need him to take her.

It would fall to him, he knew, because to the best of his knowledge, she'd made no move to contact anyone and perhaps more tellingly, not a single soul had appeared in the three hours since they'd arrived at the hospital.

There was a story there. What, exactly it was, he didn't know, but gut instinct told him it wasn't good.

"You're in uniform."

The words were quiet, uttered in the same sort of dispassionate tone one might use to observe the neighbors had planted new shrubbery or that Victoria had once used to muse whether or not aqua was a good color for the bedroom walls. Never mind they'd been in the midst of an activity during which the color of the walls should have been the last thing on her mind.

He still had no clue what the hell color she'd ultimately chosen for the walls.

Glancing up from his clipboard he noted the curtain had been drawn far enough back to reveal her studying him from her position perched on the edge of the gurney.

With anyone else, he'd bark out some acid-tinged retort about stating the obvious, but not with her. Not simply because he still—always—would consider her his boss, not to mention, over the past eight years she'd more than earned his respect, and not just because she'd just been through a traumatic experience, but because… well, because.

"I am." And even though she hadn't asked and he wasn't certain she'd even care, he elaborated, "Trout knocked me down to desk duty."

Her face remained still though slight telltale creases appeared at the corners of her eyes. "But you're not at a desk."

"Too accessible."

She cocked her head, hair falling away to reveal the stark white bandage shielding the stitches she'd required. "Too accessible?" she repeated. Her tone remained somewhat distant, but there was more of… her in it, prompting him to continue.

"Yeah, detectives kept coming by to talk to me."

To ask his advice, of all things. Miller and Dobson had been the first. Tentative, as if terrified he might snarl or draw his weapon—and he would have, too—but something in their expressions had stifled both of those natural reactions. Bemused, Carlton had answered their questions regarding a former case of his they'd inherited, then promptly put it out of his mind as he went back to answering phones and the stultifying drudgery of filling out requisition forms. Then a couple days later, another detective had approached, then another, and another. A steady stream of them, stopping by to ask his advice on who they might tap as a C.I. or the best way to approach questioning a particular suspect or did he think they were on the right track with a particular investigation.

At first, he was confused. Most of the people under his command had hated him. He'd expected they would have had doughnuts and coffee celebrating his demotion had it not been for the fact that Trout had banned doughnuts from the precinct and Balance bars just didn't carry with them the same joyous air of Ding dong the bastard's gone!

Then his bruised ego had reveled in the attention. Of course they couldn't function without him. About damned time they figured it out. As far as appreciation, well, better late than never, right?

After nearly two weeks, however, he realized the reality lay somewhere in between: as much as they might have hated him, they hated Trout more. A hell of a lot more.

As Miller had confided, in a rare moment of camaraderie, Carlton might be a bastard, but at least every individual on the detective's squad knew where they stood with him—second to the job and solving their cases which always came first.

Trout, however, being no one's dummy, quickly caught on to the tacit show of solidarity in which the detectives were engaging, but rather than punish them as a whole for what he no doubt considered to be gross insubordination, took his ire out on Carlton—again.

"Trout figured it was best to get me the hell out of the building, so he bumped me over to patrol and made certain I was assigned the most far-reaching routes." Carlton shrugged. "I think he might have considered having me patrol Crack Row, but it was too risky."

"I hardly think he'd be concerned for your safety."

Carlton chuckled. "He couldn't give a damn about my safety—more my former position and notoriety. The risk I might make a high-profile bust that would land me positive publicity was too high. Couldn't have that. Of course," he added matter-of-factly, "the probability that a dealer looking to score some revenge could also take me out was also raised, so I'm honestly kind of shocked he didn't decide to roll the dice."

Karen paled suddenly and swayed on the gurney's edge, prompting him to drop the clipboard to the floor and close the distance between them. Gently, because he wasn't sure where, exactly she hurt most, other than probably everywhere, he grasped her upper arms.

"Hey," he murmured, "you all right?"

And immediately felt stupid. Of course she wasn't all right. She'd just been in a high impact car accident—the result of swerving to avoid a squirrel or rabbit that had darted in front of her car. The lone witnesses—a pair of unwashed hippies hiking the bluff running parallel to the road and taking pictures couldn't be sure. Just that something had darted from the brush and just as quickly taken off, reinforcing his opinion that the furry vermin were evil and needed to be contained. Perhaps in Trout's underwear drawer.

And of course she wasn't all right, because he knew there had to be more behind her losing control of her vehicle enough to spin out until she wound up wedged in a copse of trees than vindictive furry vermin. Something that had sober, responsible Karen Vick driving well over the posted speed limit on the sharply curving and extremely remote Mountain Drive.

But he let her answer "Fine," and merely stood there, hands gently grasping her upper arms until he felt her steady.

"Don't. Please."

He stared down at her hands, one wrist wrapped in a soft brace, holding his. For someone who was clearly in pain and quite possibly already groggy from pain medication, she still had outstanding reflexes, grabbing hold of his hands before they'd fully slipped from her arms.

More proof that whatever was going on in her head was bad.

The reflexes or the holding onto your hands like her life depends on it? The same way she fell into your arms when you cut her free?

Either. Both. Shut up.

"Trout's an ass."

"You'll get no argument from me there." He stood very still, not certain what he should do.

"I know you want to show him up—expose him for the grandstanding idiot he is—but promise you won't be reckless."

Okay, now—wait a minute. The concern was touching—but odd. Okay, yeah, she'd worried for his safety in the past, but that was when she'd actively sort of had to. Now, though... yeah. Definitely odd. But touching. And definitely real, considering how she continued to cling to his hands.

"Kind of tough to do when I'm relegated out to the sticks." He hesitated, then spoke his mind because when had he not? Especially with her. "You provided the most excitement I've experienced in six months." And even though he knew it was stupid, he couldn't keep an edge of anger from creeping into his voice. "That kind of excitement I could do without, you know. You scared the hell out of me, Karen."

He couldn't be entirely sure, but he though he heard an impossibly soft, "Me, too."

As he continued standing there, vibrating with barely restrained agitation, her thumbs began a gentle, soothing motion across the backs of his hands. An instant later, she glanced down, then up, eyes wide and dark.

"Your wedding band."

Tension stilled the agitation. "Long story."

She stared up at him, the fragile skin beneath her eyes smudged purplish-blue, on one side extending into a mottled bruise surrounding an angry red abrasion marring one of her sharply etched cheekbones. For a brief, irrational moment he found himself hacked at the airbag for having hurt her, even as his sane mind recognized it as a small price to pay for saving her from greater injury—

Or worse.

"Carlton?"

He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his mouth, seeing again the sharp drop off a mere hundred yards from the trees that had caught her car.

"Yeah?"

Slowly, he felt her turn her hands in his. As she did, he felt the fabric of the brace drag against his skin—and nothing else. Startled, but not really, he stared down, noting the smooth, bare expanse of her hands.

"I've got time."