Irony, Oh Irony, You Are A Treacherous Son Of A Bitch
"Gun!" Regan screamed at the top of her voice.

She tackled McCoy from behind, grabbing his arm and jacket and dragging him to the ground.

Falling, McCoy saw Therese McMillan aim the shotgun in the wound-down window of Dawson's patrol car, and then white light stretched out from the barrel of the gun into the car and the car windows turned instantly from clear to milky white as the blast crazed the safety glass and a spray of pink and red blotching made an abstract pattern on the inside of the windows on the driver's side and finally McCoy heard the boom of the shotgun as he hit the ground.

The impact winded him. Regan was sprawled across him, gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise. McCoy turned his head to see her fumbling at her hip, face white and blank, and he realised she was trying to draw the gun she no longer carried.

Then Rollins, Atkins and Harris were out of their cars, weapons drawn. One shot cracked through the winter air, McCoy couldn't tell from whose gun, and blood bloomed on Therese McMillan's face and the barrel of the shotgun drifted down to the side and her knees began to buckle and then before she could fall a thunder of gunfire filled the clearing and there was blood everywhere on her and then she was down.

The shotgun falling from her hand made a clatter that sounded weak and tinny in the aftermath of the gunfire.

Silence rushed into the clearing.

In the silence McCoy could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. Regan was breathing fast and hoarse. She had stopped reaching for a non-existent gun, but she still held McCoy down, long-limbed body stretched over him, one hand clenched on his jacket, the other clutching at the frosty grass. Her coat was thin enough for McCoy to feel the heat of her body and the tremors running through her.

The silence stretched and stretched, and then Harris let out a low groan. He ran to Dawson's car, stumbling and sliding on the frozen ground. Breathing in noisy sobs, he fumbled with the driver's door for long agonising seconds and then managed to yank it open.

What used to be Bill Dawson fell out onto the icy ground.

Harris stared. "Oh. Oh, god!" he choked, stumbled backwards and sat down hard.

McCoy looked long enough to be sure Dawson was beyond help, and then turned away. He looked at Regan and saw her gaze fixed on the ruined man sprawled by his car. Her breath came shallow, and sweat beaded her face despite the chill of the air.

"Regan," he said quietly, and then more sharply, "Regan!"

Regan blinked rapidly, and then her white-knuckled grip on him eased. She rolled away from him and got to her feet. The movement made her hiss with pain.

"You okay?" McCoy asked her as she bent forward, clutching her side.

"I'll live," she said tightly, then turned away. She staggered a few steps and fell to her hands and knees, retching.

McCoy levered himself to his feet against the car. Before he could reach Regan she was on her feet again, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She scuffed snow over the place with the toe of one waterlogged boot and turned towards the house.

Harris sat motionless, staring at Dawson's body sprawled across the frozen ground. Atkins was fumbling to reload his weapon. Rollins had already done so and was holding a steady bead on the front door of the McMillan house. Waiting for whoever might be inside. For whoever might be inside and armed.

"Get back in the car," McCoy said. "Regan? We need to get back in the car."

She ignored him and began to walk towards the house.

"Regan!" McCoy called.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, the house isn't clear," Rollins called. "Ma'am, stay back!"

Regan kept walking, stumbling a little but not stopping. McCoy waited for one of the police officers to move to intercept her. By the time he realised they weren't going to do so, Regan was halfway to the porch.

Cursing to himself, McCoy hurried after her. Like she thinks she's bullet-proof, he thought, not the first time he'd had that thought where Regan Markham was concerned.

She had reached the steps when McCoy caught up with her. He grabbed her arm as she climbed the last few steps and Regan stopped – perhaps because McCoy'd stopped her, perhaps because she'd reached where she had been going all along. McCoy stopped as well, one step below her, the difference in elevation bringing them to almost exactly the same height. He let go of Regan's arm and dropped his hand to his side. After a moment, Regan reached across the little distance between them and slipped her hand in his. Her fingers were very cold.

Therese McMillan lay on her back on the porch. Her eyes were open and unblinking. Blood soaked the front of her housedress and pooled slowly beneath her. The cigarette she had been smoking had fallen from her mouth and smouldered beside her. The gun, too, had fallen away to the side and her hands were empty, palm up against the wooden boards of the porch.

Her feet in their lime green slippers were turned inwards, toes touching. The left one was worn almost through at the heel. The housedress had ridden up as she fell, revealing her thighs, spidered with clumps of varicose veins.

The widening pool of blood reached the burning cigarette and extinguished it with a hiss.

"The baby – " McCoy started. "A caesarean – "

"Too late," Regan said dully. "Already too late." She ran her free hand over her face. "I guess Therese thought it always was."

McCoy tightened his grip on her hand and put his other hand on her shoulder. "Come on, Regan. Come on." He tried to draw her back down the stairs and he thought Regan might be about to yield to his urging when a noise within the house froze them both.

" Terry?" a quavering voice called. " Terry? What's going on?" Through the screen McCoy saw the front door open, and an old man peered out at them. " Terry?"

Regan took two quick steps forward, avoiding the blood, putting herself between the door and the body. "She's lying down right now, Papa," Regan said. She opened the screen door and put her hands on the old man's shoulders.

He tried to peer past her. " Terry?"

"She's lying down," Regan said reassuringly. "Tell me, Papa, who else is in the house? Who's here today?"

"Just Terry and Mama," the senior McMillan quavered.

"Where's Mama?" Regan asked gently.

"She's having her nap. She always has her nap this time of day."

"Okay," Regan said. "Let's go inside, okay, Papa? It's cold out here. Let's go inside."

She turned him around and steered him gently back into the house.

McCoy was about to follow when running footsteps behind him made him turn. Atkins and Rollins have finally decided they can't shirk risks an unarmed woman is willing to run.

They hurried up the steps, guns drawn. " Mr McCoy, get back in your car. Get back in your car," Rollins barked. "I don't need two civilians to worry about. Get back in your car."

"Get Ms Markham out of that house," McCoy ordered.

"Get back in your car and stay out of my way," Rollins snapped.

Reluctantly, McCoy backed down the steps. He could hear Atkins shouting at someone inside the house, voice cracking on the shrill edge of hysteria, Rollins bellowing over him. McCoy nearly backed into Dawson's car but managed to stop short before he touched it. Edging his way around it he moved a little way from the steps. He kept his back to Dawson's body. McCoy had seen crime scenes, bodies and autopsies from time to time in his years at the DA's Office, and he had a strong stomach, but he wasn't eager to spend much time looking at what a shotgun could do to a man's head.

After a few minutes Regan came out of the house. She skirted Therese's body and came slowly down the steps, one at a time, hunched up a little and holding her side.

McCoy met her at the foot of the steps. Regan looked up at him, face grey, eyes empty. "Rollins called for backup. And for Narcan for Mrs McMillan." She swayed a little and McCoy took her arm. She leaned on him. "They want us to give statements at the station. Rollins said in a couple of hours."

"They don't want us to stay here?" McCoy asked.

"Welcome to the minors," Regan said sourly. She closed her eyes for a moment. "I need to sit down, Jack," she whispered. "I'm so tired."

He put his arm around her waist, trying to avoid her bruises and cracked ribs. With his other hand beneath her elbow he helped her to their car. They passed Harris sitting on the ground a little way away from Dawson's body, gun still in his hand. He was staring at nothing, seeming unaware of the tears trickling down his face.

"Trooper Harris," McCoy said. "Trooper Harris!"

The young man looked up at him dazedly.

"Trooper, holster your weapon and secure the scene!" McCoy ordered brusquely.

Harris blinked at him. "Yes. Yes, sir. I will." He put his gun away and got clumsily to his feet. His colour was bad and McCoy thought he probably needed a doctor's attention but at least he had something to do, something to focus on besides the bodies, and McCoy was fully occupied getting Regan to the car. Before she collapses completely, he thought, glancing down at her pale, sweaty face.

"Can you drive, please?" Regan asked distantly, and when McCoy nodded she fumbled in her pocket and pulled out the car keys, pressing them into his hand. McCoy unlocked the car and eased Regan into the front passenger seat. Once he was in the driver's seat he turned the ignition and started the heater. Regan leaned back in her seat, eyes closed.

"Are you hurt?" McCoy asked. "Did something – happen – inside the house?"

Regan rolled her head from side to side against the headrest. "Nobody home but Mr and Mrs McMillan. Neither of them in any shape to cause trouble. Your old granny could take them." She started to take her coat off, flinched sharply and stopped.

"You are hurt," McCoy said.

Regan shook her head. "I just fell hard, that's all."

"Maybe you should see a doctor," McCoy suggested.

"It's nothing," Regan said.

"It doesn't seem like nothing," McCoy said. "Don't be a hero, Regan."

"A hero?" Regan said, incredulous. "A fucking hero, Jack? I got us up here because I wanted to ride to Timmy McMillan's rescue. What did I get? Three lives lost. Three people killed because I wanted to be a hero." She stopped, gasping, her hand pressed against her side.

"No, no, no," McCoy said, reaching over to put his hand on her knee. "No, you can't think like that, Regan. Listen to me. Therese McMillan made a decision. Suicide by cop. You didn't do that. We didn't cause that."

"It's not suicide by cop, Jack, when you kill the cop," Regan said harshly. "Oh, for chrissakes, will you just get me out of here, Jack, will you, please?"

"Okay," McCoy said. He put the car in gear. "Okay."

As he drove away from the McMillan house Regan leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes.

"I'm going to take you to the doctor," McCoy said.

"I think you'll find the doctor is on his way to the crime scene," Regan said. "Towns like this, the doctor tends to be the M.E. as well." She touched her side gingerly. "Nothing's broken. I know what that feels like. Just take me back to the motel."

"All right," McCoy said, not persuaded. There has to be another doctor in this town, or nearby. We can revisit this argument when I know where.

They passed the cemetery. McCoy wondered if both Bill Dawson and Therese McMillan would be buried there.

"Two more crooked headstones," Regan murmured, echoing his thoughts.

"Do you want to – "

"Talk about it?" Regan finished sourly. "Nothing to talk about."

" Anita Van Buren mentioned to me once that Ed Green is 'sensitive' about being shot at these days," McCoy said. He stole a glance at her pale, set face. "How about you?"

"I've always been sensitive about being shot at," Regan said, reaching for dry humour and almost making it. McCoy smiled, half at the joke and half in acknowledgement of how deftly she'd evaded him. Round one to Regan.

"Doesn't bring back bad memories?" McCoy probed.

Regan made a fist and then flattened her hand against the car window. " Jesus, Jack, you're as subtle as a sledgehammer."

"Yeah, and you're as white as a ghost – or someone who's seen one," McCoy retorted.

"I just saw two people killed – three lives lost. And your cheeks aren't exactly rosy." Regan bunched her hand into a fist again and pressed it against her mouth.

"So are you really telling me that all those bullets flying around didn't make you think about the time you got shot?" McCoy said, putting as much disbelief as he could in his tone.

Regan was silent for a long time as the trees flicked past the windows. "I was in the john," she said. "When the shooting started. I was in the john when I heard the first shots. Pulling up my pants makes me think about the time I got shot."

Bravo, McCoy thought. Not a word of a lie but a perfect parry, nonetheless. Four to nil.

He tried a different tack. "You seemed to build a good rapport with Therese McMillan. It was almost as if you two knew each other. And then – one minute she's a family member of a defendant who you're trying to get to open up – the next we're in the middle of a gunfight and the woman you're trying to build a relationship with is dead. So, do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Regan said. "No, I don't want to talk about it. No, it wasn't a gunfight. It was two executions. And no, I didn't know her. Not even slightly. I didn't know her at all. "

.oOo.

A/N: I've really struggled with this story as it develops and this chapter in particular, trying to blend action and dialogue, trying to make McCoy more than a bystander when it's not realistic to make him too Action Jackson in the middle of a gunfight – please let me know what you think.