Tangled
By Wyndhamfan
Note: Finally, my week of working 13-hour days comes to an end! What a pain. So, this is the chapter when I'm rather mean to Danny. Just a little note to tell you that I'm not a doctor, so I may get certain medical facts wrong, though I did do quite a research on it. :P Just remember, it's fiction – hope you like it.
Chapter Six
He dreamt that he was back in Tanglewood, and they were having a baseball game at the field near crazy Roger's house.
You learn early, in his neighbourhood, how to recognize one of the boys. One didn't have to spot the tattoo. You just had to watch how they walked: always so confident and with a kind of obnoxious swagger reserved for those who think they're invincible. Then there were the stories, of course, about which boy did what. Usually the "what" was never pleasant to listen to.
Danny learned young to spot one of the Boys. They pretty much left him alone. But when it came to a game of baseball, he was suddenly a star. The Boys were fascinated with his pitching skills, his fast ball, and his ability to throw one mean, curve ball. They treated him like he was one of their own, taking him to the Uncle Jim's for a sundae after each game.
"You know what I think Messer?" said Johnny Copano, the leader of the gang back then.
He'd kept quiet, of course. Thinking was reserved for the big boys.
"I think you're going to put that arm to good use one day. You know, for me and the boys," he laughed.
"Temp is 105.5 and rising, heartbeat erratic. Breathing still strong … unconscious right now … oxygen administered …dehydrated …"
The world was shaking. And it was noisy. Some kind of siren. His room didn't have a siren, did it? And he wasn't in California, so it shouldn't be an earthquake, right?
The absurd thoughts were still running through his head when he tentatively opened his eyes.
He couldn't make sense of anything. The world was awash with blurred colours. It was hard to make anything out.
"Danny?"
Not like Tanglewood. The neighbourhood had two colours: Brown and grey.
"Danny. Can you hear me?"
He shifted his aching head towards the familiar voice. Saw a blurry figure in front of him. Eventually the blurry figure sharpened somewhat, and a face swam into focus.
He realized that it was Mac Taylor he was staring at. And he looked worried. No, anxious. Like that time when he heard that the Towers were burning. It was an awful sight to see. Mac was always a tower of strength. Until that day.
"Danny. Can you hear me?" Mac said again as he leaned forward. Danny felt someone squeeze his hand. It felt weird. Like he was detached somehow, and that sensation belonged to someone else.
This time, he decided to make an effort to say something. "Mac," he whispered. It surprised him how awfully weak he sounded. He realized then that there was something on his face. He wrestled an arm free from the blankets to remove it from his face.
Mac stopped him by gripping that hand and gently placing it back at his side.
"You need that on, Danny," he said gently.
He frowned and struggled to get the words out from his parched throat: "Where …" he began, but found he was too tired to continue.
The world was shaking again … or maybe he was … he realized then that he was having a difficult time trying to keep still. Where was he? Why was Mac in this place? He couldn't remember anything beyond falling asleep last night. He remembered feeling anxious about the meeting with Hillborn and then …
His head ached as he tried to remember.
"You're in an ambulance, and we're taking you to the hospital," Mac explained, his voice calm as always. Only his dark eyes betrayed his anxiety. He paused, then added: "You're going to be fine."
"No, I'm not," he whispered. He knew that with a certainty. If he couldn't remember anything else that had happened to him and how he'd ended up in this place, he remembered one thing: he was not going to be fine. He couldn't make out the details why, but he knew that Mac shouldn't coddle him with half-truths when he knew what's the real deal. He wasn't going to be fine. Ever.
Mac opened his mouth to protest, but Danny only shook his head. "They're never going to let me go, you know," he whispered hoarsely.
Mac frowned. "Who are you talking about?"
"It doesn't matter … he shuddered as he shook from the cold again. "… they won't forget," he whispered harshly. He began to pant as his heart began to speed up. Then he turned his glazed eyes to Mac.
"Sorry he got away," Danny muttered.
For a second, Mac gave Danny a bewildered look, wondering what he meant.
"Danny," he began.
Danny whispered something unintelligibly, then he winced as a cough ripped through his chest.
"Don't talk anymore, Danny," Mac said, watching helplessly as Danny coughed. He gave the paramedic a concerned look, which he returned briefly before putting on a stethoscope. He gave Danny's chest a listen and shook his head.
"What?" Mac asked, his worry intensifying.
"Breathing's getting laboured," said the paramedic.
"Do you know what's wrong with him? Is it pneumonia?"
"Can't say for sure. Symptoms like these – it can be a lot of things. But one thing I'm sure: we should let him rest," the paramedic reminded him as he adjusted Danny's IV.
He nodded without removing his eyes from Danny's anxious ones. Tentatively, he reached out to grasp Danny's feverish hand again.
"We'll talk about it when you're better, okay?"
Danny didn't respond. Instead, he stared at Mac suspiciously and then yanked his hand away from his grip.
"I don't owe nothin' to thieves," he hissed.
XXXXX
By the time they opened the ambulance doors Danny was unconscious again. Mac got out quickly, and watched furtively as they moved the stretcher with Danny on it to the emergency room. Danny by then had stopped his godawful shaking, and was still. Too still.
Mac could only follow in mute silence as they placed him on the gurney and wheeled him deep inside, until a doctor came towards him and told him that that was the furthest he'd go.
As he stared at the retreating figures, he felt someone standing beside him. Stella.
She didn't say anything. What is there to say?
"He's going to be fine," he said mechanically, his eyes still on the retreating figures.
A pause, then, "Yeah," said Stella flatly.
A woman in a doctor's white lab coat walked quickly towards them and informed them that they had to wait for a long while.
"We'll wait," Stella said quickly. Mac merely nodded.
Surprisingly, they didn't have to wait that long. About half an hour later, the same doctor ran towards them. They both stood up quickly.
"Do you know the emergency contact – one Mac Taylor?" she asked, a little breathless.
Mac tried to push away the sudden stab of fear he felt. "That's me," he replied and stepped forward.
"I'm Dr Janelle Wilson," she said and shook his hand brusquely, and then Stella's. "Okay, we've managed to stabilize his temperature, but it's still very high – at 105. I've placed him on antipyretics to bring it down. We're performing blood tests on him soon to determine the cause of his fever."
"Do you know what he has?" Stella asked.
"Not conclusively until the blood test. His condition is serious, but thankfully he came in when he did. On top of the fever, he's badly dehydrated. Do you know how long he's been like this?"
Mac and Stella exchanged glances. They've not seen him for two days.
"He seemed fine to me when I saw him on Saturday, be he did seem a little pale," Mac sighed at that. He thought Danny was a little 'off', but he had attributed it to nervousness ... at talking to him about the psych eval.
"When he didn't show up for work today, we found him in his apartment …. like this … about 10am. But a neighbour said that he looked unwell since Saturday," Mac continued.
"Danny's the type to shrug off colds. Or pretend that he didn't have one. Maybe this one he couldn't shrug off," Stella said. She couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for not being more observant about his condition. To be honest, Aiden was the best person to answer Dr Wilson's questions. The two were close. Stella barely interacted with him, a fact she realized with regret.
"I see. It looks like a sudden onset of high fever," murmured Wilson.
"Which means?" Mac asked.
"Unfortunately, many things. These things can be hard to diagnose, but we have a specialist, Dr Ferell, coming down from Jersey right now."
"Dr Wilson, he's going to be all right, isn't he? I mean, he's not in any danger, is he?" Stella interrupted; her voice was tight with worry.
Wilson gave them a guarded look and shook her head apologetically. "I can't promise you anything, I'm sorry," she said.
The remark sent another stab of fear into Mac.
"Are you saying that he could die?" Mac asked in a low voice.
"What I'm saying is that I can't formulate a firm answer when I don't know what's causing the fever. The blood test will take some time to get in. I suggest you return home. We'll keep you updated. Sorry, but I have to return to the ER now," she said.
Wilson did not wait for them to reply to march her way back to the ER.
"Oh God," Stella murmured, running a hand wearily through her hair. She could still feel the adrenaline thrumming inside her; she wanted to do something, anything, but this waiting was making her crazy.
"You okay?" Mac asked.
"How about you?" she countered, her eyes on Mac's strained expression.
Mac merely sighed. "Anything but okay," he replied shortly.
Then he frowned, and felt for something in his coat pocked. He took out his beeper and sighed again.
"What?" Stella asked with a frown – whatever it was, Mac didn't look too pleased with the message on the beeper.
"Body on 5th Avenue," he answered briefly.
A pause, then: "Murder goes on," Stella replied sardonically.
Chapter Seven
It was hot.
Too goddamned hot.
Danny moved restlessly in his bed, trying to find a cooler spot – he felt as if he was lying on something that was heating him up – but he found that his arm snagged on something. The pain was sharp and sudden enough to wake him up.
He blinked owlishly – saw blurry figures around him. Who were they? He thought in panic. Where was he?
Confused, he tried to sit up, only to have someone push him down. He pushed the hand away in alarm and tried to get up again. More hands restrained him this time and he began to struggle against them with his feeble strength.
"Maybe we should restrain him?" a voice asked.
He didn't hear the answer. He struggled harder, but almost immediately felt his strength disappear. He slumped back to the bed helplessly as the misty shapes took his hands and positioned it at his sides.
"What are you doing?" he rasped when he felt something thick and leathery being tied around his hands. He tried to jerk his hands away from it, but found that he couldn't.
"Let me go!" he yelled and then tried to sit up.
Someone pushed him down again.
"No," he moaned, shaking his head in denial and frustration. "Get away from me!" he hissed.
"Mr Messer," a woman called. He tried to focus on the direction of her voice. One of the misty shapes bent close to him, and eventually a young woman in her thirties in a doctor's coat came to focus. She looked intently at him and said: "Don't move, Mr Messer. You're safe; no one's going to harm you."
"Then why are you tying me up?" he demanded, struggling with his bonds.
"It's for your own good. You have a very high fever and we need to bring it down, and we need you to stay still and not struggle. I'll remove the bonds if you agree to do this, can you understand me?"
Danny bit his lip when his stomach churned with nausea. He managed a weak nod.
He felt them untying the straps around his wrists and fell back to the pillows in relief as he continued to stare warily at the woman.
"Mr Messer, we're taking a blood sample from you now. It'll twinge a little," said the doctor.
He felt something poke him in the arm. He winced, but was too weak to protest, let alone fight back.
The doctor brushed his hair back from his forehead and stared into his eyes. He found it unnerving, so looked away
"What's his temp?" asked the doctor.
"105. Doesn't seem to be coming down much."
He supposed that was not exactly good news because the doctor shook her head. Then, someone opened his eyes and shone a stab of light into his eyes. It instantly sent a bolt of pain ripping through his skull.
He cried out in pain and looked away. "It hurts," he rasped angrily. "Stop shinin' it …" He clenched his eyes shut tightly; if they want to shine that thing again in his eyes, he's going to make sure they were going to fight him to do it.
"Sensitivity to light," the doctor droned like it was a bit of fascinating trivia. She then said something to him, but by then he was too tired to concentrate. He let the world fade away. He could vaguely hear them fussing around him. Like distant, phantom voices.
Then, the brief peace he enjoyed was disrupted when he felt hands on him again, and like before, he was too weak to stop them. He groaned when icy fingers touched the feverish skin around his neck. They gently turned his head left, then to the right, like he was some kind of puppet they wanted to play with. And then someone removed his blanket, and began taking off the light hospital gown he wore. That was the last straw.
"Stop it," he snapped. He pushed the hand on his wrist away weakly.
The icy hand returned to gently place his hand back to his side.
"It'll be over soon, Mr Messer," said someone; this time it was a man.
So, the invasion of his personal space continued in earnest. They were obviously looking for something. Though he couldn't, in his befuddled mind, figure out what.
He moaned when they turned him to his side. The icy hands were now behind his legs poking and prodding. It sent his feverish imagination into overdrive and his heart raced from the anxiety. But thankfully, like they promised, it was over quickly. Though they lingered a bit on a spot behind his knee. He earnestly hoped that they found what they were looking for because he really needed to sleep now.
Gentle hands turned him back to his back, smoothed out his hospital gown and adjusted his blankets.
Gratefully, he drifted in a half-doze and eventually the hum of activity around him went quiet … until a deep voice penetrated his dim consciousness. It jolted him awake.
He opened his eyes slowly. A bland ceiling greeted him … he vaguely realized that he must've been moved because he didn't remember the room looking like this – all blue and … peaceful. The other room was white, stark … frantic. And it was quieter here – except for the irritating beeping in the distance.
The voice said something again.
He frowned.
"What?" he rasped in response.
"This is important, Mr Messer. Were you recently bitten by a tick?" asked the voice in a thick English accent.
It was a different person. A man. And the question stumped him for a while. What kind of question was that? Maybe he was still out of his head … like when Mac was in the ambulance, and he'd a hard time trying to focus.
"Mr Messer?"
The man was serious. He wanted an answer.
"Tick … no ticks. I don't live … in a forest," he slurred. He heard a chuckle, then:
"A sense of humour is always a good sign," said the voice. Danny wanted to tell the man that he wasn't being funny. It was just the truth. But the thought of talking that much tired him.
A blurry shape came to his line of vision. Eventually it sharpened and took on the features of a man in his fifties with bushy eyebrows. The man frowned heavily as he scribbled something in his pad.
Another figure walked to his side. The female doctor who had treated him in what he presumed was the emergency room.
"It certainly looks like a bite. Behind his knee. No rashes, though," he muttered to the woman. "How long did you say he's had symptoms?"
"His friends noticed that he'd been having cold symptoms for a week," said a female voice.
"Should've had some rashes if it's what I think it is…. Still, 10 of patients may never manifest the rashes."
Danny was too tired to keep his eyes open, so he closed them. But he could still hear them talking. He wished they could stop … he couldn't sleep when people are talking so loudly.
"The blood test, the bite … I think I'm certain now. You've started him on doxycycline?"
"Yes, as a precautionary measure," she replied.
"Good. How's his temp?"
"Stabilized. Though it's still 105," returned the other doctor.
He didn't seem very pleased with the answer, judging from the long silence. "The doxycycline should foster some kind of improvement. If not, we're back to square one," he finally said, his voice grave.
"Rocky …." Danny muttered, realizing something.
He opened his eyes and saw the male doctor – already quickly becoming a blotch once more – turning back towards him.
"What is it, Mr Messer?" he asked gently.
But he was so tired again … and as his eyes slid close, he could only mutter: "Dogs … dogs have ticks … don't they?"