Chapter 2: Hospital Blues

The only place Freddy hated worse than his apartment was the hospital. It was no wonder he'd slashed his wrists the last time he was in here. He fucking hated the stench of sickness obscured with disinfectant, the horrible fake-cheerful pastel color of the walls, the case-hardened doctors with their plastic smiles and probing hands, the nurses –

"Hi Freddy."

– with their little white dresses buttoned tightly over a full rack. Right now she was the most welcome sight in the world, with her strawberry blonde hair and nice lips. Damn, she looked good standing there in the doorway. Of course, she was one of the very few. Among the legion of nurses at the hospital Strawberry Blonde was probably the only one who was young, pretty, and single.

"Are you finished?"

Freddy pushed the meal tray away. "Thanks."

She pulled the rolling table over to the side. "Do you want the bed lowered?"

"No, I'll stay up."

Strawberry Blonde began to straighten his bed, plumping up his pillows and giving him a generous look down her dress. "You're not in any trouble, are you?" she asked as she straightened his blankets. "Only I saw the cop posted outside your door, and I wondered..." She shot him a coy look. Naughty girl.

"Apparently it's for my own protection," Freddy said wryly.

"From me?" said Strawberry Blonde with that cheeky little grin. "Guess we can't get any ideas, then, with a watchdog outside."

Friday night, and he was getting his kicks flirting with a nurse. And fuck – he really shouldn't be doing that, because he was seeing Irene now. The thought was like a bucket of ice water: Irene. She'd visited him just that morning, but in all honesty the visit hadn't gone so good. Irene had been in pretty bad shape after hearing about his attack. Freddy couldn't imagine how she felt, with the man she was sleeping with tortured by the man who'd also tortured her husband. During their relationship they had never talked about Marvin or any of that shit – but this situation had forced them to acknowledge Vega, and it was painful for both of them. And particularly fucking painful for him, as the cuts and bruises and the finger broken in two fucking places would attest. You know, if you're not really married, you shouldn't wear a ring. It's bad manners to lie.

"You have a visitor waiting," said Strawberry Blonde as she took up the meal tray. "Should I tell him to come in?" She winked and sashayed out of the room, giving him a nice view of her –

"Hey Newendyke!"

Freddy hastily brought his eyes up to see who had arrived. It was the kid Andrews, carrying a sports bag over one shoulder. "Jeez, your face looks like someone used it as a doorstop."

"Something like that," Freddy admitted ironically.

Andrews swung the bag onto the ground as he took the chair at the side of the bed. His dopey grin faltered when he caught sight of Freddy's arms. Andrews had never seen the scars; Freddy now kept his sleeves rolled down out of habit, but wearing hospital pajamas had several disadvantages.

"Those are old," Freddy told him, and Andrews looked instantly abashed. For some reason Jeffrey Andrews looked up to Freddy, which just showed the kid's shitty judgment, but it also made Freddy a bit more self-conscious about how he treated the younger guy. And that's why he changed the subject rather than watch the other cop squirm as he would normally have done. "What's in the bag?"

The kid's expression cleared, and he unzipped the sports bag and pulled out a baseball bat. "I brought this for you. We found it in the parking lot of the batting range."

Crushing pain on the back of his head, falling – falling – falling bat hitting pavement and clattering, rolling, rolling away, looking up at a dark figure bending, stooping over him as everything fades to black –

"Holdaway said it was yours." Andrews' voice snapped Freddy out of it. "He visited you yesterday night, but you were still unconscious. And Dr. Moss wants to see you as soon as you're back on the job. He told me to pass on the message."

Freddy wrinkled his nose at the mention of the department shrink. "Yeah, right," he muttered under his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to talk about his experiences. Vega dropped the screwdriver and picked up a hacksaw. "So tell me what I missed," he said in a louder tone of voice, trying to drown out the visions flickering through his head.

Andrews shifted uncomfortably. "Sure, Freddy. Uh… Vega got away. We did everything we could, we really did, but he slipped through our nets."

"That's no surprise," said Freddy, and the younger cop looked very relieved. Freddy was a bit annoyed; did Andrews really think that he'd completely fucking lose it and take it out on him? "At least now we know that sick fucking bastard is definitely behind the arsons. It was on a Thursday, like all the others, and he matches witness descriptions."

"Yeah, but why?" said Andrews. He was looking at Freddy expectantly.

"Shit, you think I know?" he snapped, and immediately felt a twinge of guilt at the contrite look on the younger cop's face. "I did try to ask him about it," he admitted more calmly. "When he was... you know..." Torturing me. "But the fuckin' prick ignored my questions. I got no fuckin' clue what he's up to."

There was a silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Then Andrews said, "Broken?"

Freddy saw that he was looking at his left ring finger, and looking at it brought the ache back. The digit was painful, swollen, and fucking difficult to use, and splinted to his middle finger so that his hand looked like the appendage of some fucked-up aquatic animal. "Yeah, it's broken in two places," he confirmed. "Aside from the cuts and bruises and stuff, that's the worst I got. He was gonna do a lot more before you guys showed up." He flexed his hand and winced. "Doctors were worried about tracheal damage or some shit, but I got pulled out of the smoke in time. D'you know who did it?"

Andrews ducked his head and appeared fascinated with his clasped hands. "I – I did."

Freddy blinked. He hadn't seen that one coming. Was he really going to believe that Andrews, the awkward kid with red hair and glasses, the one who shook worse than a jackhammer before a job, had actually pulled him out of a burning building? "You did, huh?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral as he tried to figure out what the fuck he was supposed to think.

"Yeah..." Andrews glanced up at him before looking away again, his cheeks flaming red. "I hope you don't mind."

"You stupid motherfucker!" Freddy burst out. "What the fuck would I mind for?" He laughed at the startled expression on the younger cop's face. "Thanks, man, I really owe you one."

"Nah, don't worry about it Detective Newendyke."

Freddy shook his head. "Listen, enough of this last-name shit. You can call me Freddy, all right? Jeff?" He stuck out his hand.

After only a bit of hesitation, the rookie took it. "Sure thing."

As they shook hands, Freddy couldn't help feeling that he'd had a breakthrough with the kid. The rookie really had proved himself, first by going undercover to get information from George "Dov" Dover, and now by saving Freddy's life, or at the very least his lungs. Maybe now they could act like equals. Freddy wouldn't boss Jeff around – not too much, anyway – and hopefully Jeff wouldn't act like the president of the Freddy Newendyke Fan Club. It was a win-win situation.

"So when are you getting out of this place?" asked Jeff, looking around the depressing little room.

"Tomorrow morning," said Freddy, groaning as he stretched. "It's a nightmare in here. Doctors and nurses telling you what to do – I can't even smoke. It's worse than fucking Nazi Germany."

"Are the nurses really that bad? I mean," Jeff gave a half-grin, "the one that was leaving your room looked pretty fine to me."

Freddy sniggered. "Strawberry Blonde? Yeah, she's somethin'. I got to know her pretty well last time I was in here. For the coma. Got to know all the nurses pretty fuckin' well, actually, and Strawberry Blonde is the exception to the rule. Last time I was here there was a black nurse on the night shift, Bonnie. Nice ass but a fucking bitch. She's on maternity leave, thank god."

"Well at least you're getting out tomorrow." Jeff glanced at his watch, and stood. "I gotta go, but take it easy, okay? You need someone to pick you up in the morning?"

Freddy shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, though." He watched as Jeff left the room, half-closing the door behind him.

Left alone, Freddy glanced down at the baseball bat Jeff had left leaning against the chair at the side of his bed. He could reach it if he needed to. Just lean over from his bed, and his hand could settle over that worn familiar grip. He'd hit a couple of good ones in his time, playing ball with Luke in the backyard of their foster home. He could swing a bat as well as any of them. And if Vega came barging through that door, he'd find himself with a mouthful of splinters.

A door slammed somewhere down the hall and Freddy jumped. He took a big gulp of air and told himself to relax. Shit, he was nervous. It was even worse than his police academy exams. He had this horrible feeling of something hovering over him, something with a gas can in one hand and a lighter in the other.

For that was what had been haunting him ever since he'd woken up late last night. He hadn't been able to go back to sleep, no matter how hard he'd tried. Whenever he closed his eyes he was taken back to that garage. I wonder... should I do the same to you? Another ear? Or maybe an eye? That madman Vega knew who he was now. He knew his name. He could track him down. Shit, he could be walking into the hospital right fucking now! Excuse me, do you have a patient here called Newendyke?

Freddy wished that he had his gun. There would be no sleep for him tonight. Not that he'd take the rest if he could – there was no fucking way he wanted to dream about Vega with a hacksaw, or that burning garage. He'd keep his eyes on his bat, and pray that the cop outside his room gave him enough of a warning should Vega turn up. He heard footsteps approaching and tensed up, muscles contracting, eyes wide, fingers trembling as they reached towards his bat. The footsteps were at the door... sweat stood out on Freddy's brow... the footsteps were passing.

It was going to be a long night.

A/N: The sharp-eyed among you may have recognized the nurse Bonnie as Jimmie Dimmick's wife in Pulp Fiction. Strawberry Blonde was previously mentioned in Addendum I: Depression. Reviews welcome!