Steve's stomach was trying to squeeze itself up through his chest after tying itself in a series of excessively complicated knots. His heart had fled before the advancing organ and deposited itself firmly in his mouth. His palms were soaked, and his head was pounding. A stray corner of his mind informed him that he truly needed to have a long, hard talk with his excessively independent body parts as soon as a practical opportunity arose. In the meantime, his shaky nerves continued to wreak havoc on his obstreperous insides. He watched tensely as the bailiff collected the ominous piece of paper from the jury foreperson and delivered it to the judge, and wondered idly at the significance of such a frail object where a man's life was concerned.
Judge Wharton accepted the verdict form, unfolded it, and read it. Her grey-blue gaze flickered up briefly to alight on the handsome man standing before her, his face deliberately expressionless. She handed the paper back to the bailiff, who returned it to its originator, a pleasant-looking older woman. The judge glanced at Steve again, then fastened her eyes on the jury.
"Madam foreperson, have you reached a verdict?"
The woman nodded. "We have, your Honor."
Steve listened to the traditional phrases with an increasing sense of unreality. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the next ones roll out into the courtroom.
They did anyway. "Would you read your verdict, please?" the judge requested.
Now his stomach joined his heart, and his crowded throat was the only part of his body he could feel; everything else was numb. The foreperson flashed him a sympathetic look, but he was desperately focusing on the table in front of him and missed it.
"On the charges of attempted murder, assault and battery on Rachel Pauling, we find the defendant -- not guilty."
He heard and absorbed the words, but they had more or less expected this after Rachel's testimony. He didn't dare yet breathe.
"On the charges of attempted murder, aggravated assault and attempted kidnapping with regard to Dr. Frank Morgan, we find the defendant -- not guilty."
His gallivanting organs flew out of his body altogether. He had no awareness of who, where or when he was, just a sense that he was falling down an endless stairway. Turning to congratulate his client, Dave saw Steve's eyes dilate, then lose focus, and grabbed him just as the other man's knees buckled. He eased Steve back into his chair. "Steve? Steve, can you hear me?"
He could, but from far away, along with Judge Wharton's voice dismissing the charges and thanking the jury members for their time and service. With a strange sense of detachment, Steve identified his father's glad smile, and felt himself drift farther off by the second.
A cool hand burrowed into his, and the floor suddenly felt solid under his feet again. Rachel's radiant face slowly swam into focus, as he found himself belonging to his body once more. He smiled down at her, unable to speak; he settled for lifting her hand to his lips. Then a hand fell on his shoulder; he turned to meet Mark's huge grin, and enveloped his father in a fierce, if one-armed, hug. "Thanks for believing in me, Dad," he muttered thickly.
"Of course I believed in you," his father replied. "You're my son."
There was the requisite milling about while Steve collected hugs, handshakes and congratulations. If he and Cheryl embraced a little longer than the others, it went unnoticed for the most part, although Rachel caught a glimpse of something in Cheryl's eyes which gave her pause. Shortly afterwards, she snagged Steve's attention, laying her hand on his arm. He smiled down at her, and she, like the other women in his life lately, was stunned by the difference. She experienced a moment's panic; how could she possibly expect this incredibly attractive man with the irresistible smile to restrict his interest to her while she marked time in surgery and recovery, not to mention while she attempted to resolve her own ambivalent feelings.
"Steve, dear, I need to be getting back."
He moved away from the crowd a bit, pulling her with him. "Rachel --"
She beat him to the punch. "I hope you'll come visit. I'm going to be in therapy for at least a few more weeks, and of course the rest of the procedures --"
"Of course I'll come," he agreed. His tone grew more urgent. "Rachel -- about us --"
"Let's work on that as we go," she interposed quickly. He started to speak, but she shook her head. "I know what I'm doing, Steve. Our feelings for each other are entangled in trauma and misery. We both need to finish healing before we can consider making any kind of emotional commitment to another. But that doesn't mean I don't want us to get to know each other better in the meantime." She smiled at him quickly to soften the impact, even though she could discern a trace of bleakness start to seep into his eyes. "I mean, I don't know much about your real life; I only just found out that you and Jesse own a barbecue joint together!" She wondered whether to mention Cheryl, and sought refuge in cowardice. Better to wait and find out whether her impression had any kind of grounding in reality rather than complicate things further.
It wasn't the full-blown smile of minutes earlier, but it was an honest attempt as he conceded the debate. "Okay, Rachel, you win. For now. But I'm giving you ample warning that I keep my promises."
The brightness in her eyes was sufficient reward. "I know." She reached up and drew him down to her, wisteria enveloping him as he tasted her mouth. "Soon?" she whispered, and he nodded, not trusting the words to march out intelligibly.
As he watched her leave, the hovering fatigue hit him like the proverbial brick wall. Mark caught a glimpse of his son's face and suggested getting underway before any more of the day escaped. Too tired to argue, Steve agreed; as usual, his father's instincts were accurate. Exhaustion set in within minutes of his settling into the passenger seat, and he fell asleep not long afterwards, not waking until they had less than an hour to go. They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, then Steve said, too casually, "I'm going to go up and see her when they schedule the next operation."
"I assumed you would," Mark commented.
Steve flicked a sideways glance at his father. "Problem, Dad?"
Mark shook his head. "No, son. She's pretty level-headed."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Steve asked, startled.
His father gave him a critical look. "She's right, you know. You both have a lot of healing to do."
Steve flushed. "I didn't think anyone could hear us."
Mark laughed. "Steve, I've been so tuned to your every breath practically since you were found that I could probably hear you thinking down on the beach while I was still in the house."
The red deepened on his neck. "You never said."
Mark snorted. "Lots of things I don't necessarily tell you. You wouldn't have reacted too well to that as it was, the shape you were in."
There was a suddenly uncomfortable silence, and he glanced over at his son, who was staring straight ahead, mouth set. "Steve -- don't misunderstand me. We understood what you were going through."
His son's jaw relaxed slightly, but not much, and he continued to stare at the oncoming road. "I'm truly sorry, Dad. You were the last person I wanted to hurt."
Mark was starting to wish he'd never raised the subject. He pulled to a stop by the roadside and turned to face his son. "Steve, I know this is going to be difficult for you until you resolve your own inner -- conflicts. But please keep this in mind: I understand. We all do. We love you anyway."
Steve's head was bent, skin still flushed. "And the other night?"
"The other night," Mark repeated blankly. "What about the other night?"
"You told me --" Steve couldn't say it, and took refuge in understatement. "You were angry."
Mark thought for a moment, then remembered his outburst. "Oh." Silence reigned heavily, then he scratched his chin and pointed out, as reasonably as he could, that Steve had been hovering at the brink of losing it altogether, and desperate measures had therefore been required. Not that he considered the behavior which had triggered his tirade acceptable, of course, but he was willing to cut his son a little slack.
Steve listened open-mouthed. "Sounds like a no-win situation if you ask me, Dad," he remarked, although a grin was trying to make an appearance.
Mark noted the tone, and the dimple, and caved. "All right. You got me. I did mean some of those things I said, but not the way I said them. And we do love you."
"I know, Dad," Steve said quietly. "I love you too."
A full moon was drifting low in the night sky by the time they reached Malibu. Shortly thereafter, Mark pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine with a sigh of relief. "I feel like I've been driving for years," he commented.
Still tired, Steve had been drowsing, but had roused as the car slowed; now he glanced out of the window and felt his throat tighten. He started to reach for the door handle, and stopped.
His father noticed his hesitation. "You all right, son?"
After a moment, Steve nodded. "I think so, Dad." He took a deep breath and opened the car door.
Mark watched in silence as Steve made his way down towards the beach, then followed after, to drop to the sand next to his son, sprawled against that one favorite sandy hummock. They sat in perfect, wordless communion until stiff ribs started to whine, and Steve shifted his position slightly to accommodate them.
"Funny, isn't it, Dad."
"What's that, son?" Mark asked.
Steve craned his neck, glancing upward, then returned his gaze to the midnight-colored water before him. "Do you ever wonder about the irony, Dad?"
His father grunted. "Which one?"
Steve made a face. "Good point." He watched idly as the moon's reflection in the surf shattered into a myriad of tiny sparkling jewels. "Nature, I guess. There's the sea -- relentless, impersonal, inevitable. It rules so much life, but seems to be relatively untouched by it. And the light of the moon and stars doesn't change -- it's constant, totally unaffected by what goes on in our lives." He paused. "My life came so close today, Dad. My whole future -- shrunk down to a couple of hours in a jury room. And, through it all, despite it all, the moon rises. The stars survive. And that magnificent ocean prevails." He picked up a bit of shell, glanced at it, and tossed it towards the water, where it plopped satisfyingly. "That's me compared to them." Another pause.
His father's eyes were serious in the moonlight. "You reached a watershed today, son. In a way, ironically, you've been given an opportunity that not everyone gets; a chance to recognize that you've arrived at a critical point in your life, to examine and analyze, to make decisions which are likely to have a significant impact on the road you travel from here." He grimaced. "Of course, it would have been nice if you could have done it with less --"
"Unpleasantness?" Steve asked wryly.
Mark winced. "Not the best choice of words, son."
"No." He was silent, gazing at the almost indistinguishable line of the horizon, midnight blue meeting blue-black velvet. Finally, he said, "I'm going to call Captain Newman tomorrow. Grovel for my job back."
"You know it'll be desk duty," Mark commented dryly, suppressing a shiver as a slightly cooler breeze drifted off the water.
Steve chuckled. "Yeah. But I'll have time for my arm to heal --" He paused, the laughter gleaming in his eyes disappearing as quickly. "-- And for me to think." He got to his feet slowly, stretching tired muscles, then offered his father a hand up.
After dusting himself off, Mark asked curiously, "Think about what?"
Steve glanced at his father briefly, then let his eyes roam back to focus on the dim horizon once more. "About making sure Morgan is convicted. And Wyler. About -- getting my anger under control." He dug absently in the sand with the toe of his shoe.
"What about the gir -- er, ladies?" Mark asked, with a trace of mischief.
Steve's neck went hot. "Dad -- I thought you said you heard Rachel and me."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "So I did."
He was tired, and not in the mood for guessing games. "Dad, what are you getting at?"
Mark sighed. Ordinarily, he would have waited for Steve to figure it out himself before making any kind of comment, but Steve wasn't thinking particularly clearly at the moment. "Son -- while you're doing your thinking, maybe you might want to give some thought to Cheryl as well."
"Cheryl?" Steve asked, startled. A stray memory of a brilliant smile and velvet lips scooted through his mind's eye and tickled it, and he felt the heat rise to his face. A good thing it was dark, he thought ironically; but, when he met his father's eyes, the expression in them made him wonder. He started to speak, and realized that his father would see through him as easily as a glass of water. He ran his good hand through his hair impatiently.
"Dad, I don't know. There's -- something -- there. But I don't know what. And Rachel --"
Mark shrugged. "You're the only one who can decide that. But what I meant earlier about Rachel -- well," he said as gently as possible, "I think she realizes that your feelings for her, and hers for you, may very well be largely based a patient-nurse relationship, and that's one reason she wants to be sure before she commits herself." He waited for some comment from his son, and, lacking one, continued. "There's the added complication that you might feel -- obligated to her for what she's gone through for you."
Steve looked away and muttered something.
"What?"
"I said, I know," Steve said reluctantly. "She told me that back in the hospital." He dug in the sand some more. "I understand that. But I'd really like to know if it is something more. She's -- she's special, Dad."
His father sighed. "I know, son." He glanced at the water, and at the house, its likely warmth beckoning.
Steve was still staring out at the ocean thoughtfully, the breeze ruffling his hair. "And Cheryl -- I guess I really do need to do some thinking." He glanced absently at his father, noticing the chilling of the wind for the first time. "You look cold, Dad. Want to go in?"
Mark stared at his son for a moment, considering an appropriate response, and discarded those which came to mind as excessively harsh given Steve's level of distraction. "Sure." He lagged behind slightly as they walked up to the house, noticing the sudden trembling of the hand as Steve reached to open the door, and put a calming hand on his shoulder. "It's good to have you back, son."
Steve sat in yet another Fresno courtroom two months later, waiting for yet another jury to render its verdict. He had been told by Randy and Dave, as well as the other lawyers involved in the class action against Wyler, that he could probably file a civil suit against Dr. Morgan, but he had postponed making any decision pending the outcome of the criminal case. As it was, a conviction would also serve not only to revoke Morgan's medical license in the state of California, but to make it extremely difficult for him to practice anywhere in the country, a consequence which had Steve's full endorsement. Although it had still been difficult for him to describe those three hellish months to outsiders, especially after catching a glimpse of the elusive Flores in this courtroom also, with the resulting unwelcome reminder of potential repercussions to the wrong kind of testimony, knowing that the doctor was facing a long jail term and the end of his medical career helped.
And Steve was slowly but definitely putting his life back together. He had recently concluded his penitential tour of duty behind his desk, Captain Newman having acted true to his promise and Mark's expectations. He had driven up to Fresno for Rachel's latest surgery a few weeks earlier; now she sat beside him, calm despite the tell-tale souvenirs from the procedure. So far, they were still tentatively making each other's acquaintance; if he sometimes chafed at the overly relaxed tempo of their dance, he had to acknowledge a certain relief at being able to allow his regard to develop more naturally, even though it meant that there was no pressing need to analyze his emotional state, as well as his feelings for Cheryl.
Which he definitely had. Once back at work, even though she was able to hit the streets while he was tied to the station, their professional relationship was clearly as strong and comfortable as ever. Yet he found himself reacting more often than not to the gleam in her eyes and brilliance of her smile when directed at him, and he realized that his responses were probably more enthusiastic than the situation might have possibly have warranted. He couldn't help but hope that she experienced a similar emotional pull, if her reactions to his own smile were any indication. He wondered sometimes if Rachel had picked up on the potential attraction, but he was grateful for the latitude to work through it himself without any additional pressure.
He was also slowly learning how to handle the kernel of anger which steadfastly remained, seemingly disinclined to abandon him, although knowing that Morgan's comeuppance was imminent had alleviated a great deal of the lingering bitterness. It had taken some time, however, and he had finally asked his father for a referral, resulting in several sessions with a therapist, but, once he had accepted the probability that the rage was looking to become semi-permanent, he had started to come to terms with the occasional fury, and was developing the ability to control or focus it constructively.
Which had been a good thing, for he had held on to his temper during his last debriefing with Ron in preparation for Morgan's trial. Ron had somehow picked up on the slight, occasional hesitation in Steve's testimony during his own case, and, recognizing that the pauses were not necessarily caused by subjects forbidden by him, had been poking at Steve about them ever since, unaware that Steve's reticence had another cause entirely. Unwilling to share the threats delivered by Wyler's minions with the FBI, Steve had successfully deflected Ron's questions. He had hated himself for doing so, but he had kept his head, reminding himself that, once Wyler was safely under wraps, he would be able to lay those fears to rest.
The door opened, and the jury trooped back into the courtroom. Twelve ordinary people, Steve thought, making a decision which would have a decisive effect on a man's life. Actually, two men's lives; even with the recovery he had made, he realized that he needed badly to see Morgan pay for his actions. His fists clenched involuntarily; Rachel started at the sudden pressure on her hand. On his other side, his father glanced over at him with concern, reassuring himself that Steve was all right.
The same transfer of paper by the bailiff to the judge and back to the jury again, and Steve listened with growing relief as the foreperson read the crucial words, determining Frank Morgan, soon to be no longer M.D., guilty of all charges beyond the shadow of a doubt.
He had come full circle, Steve thought, looking appreciatively around at his father and his friends as they celebrated on the deck of the beach house, after a lengthy and lively discussion of Morgan's trial and the government's plans for Wyler once he was tracked down. He felt profoundly grateful to them all, and said so, repeatedly, until an amused Cheryl had challenged him to put his money where his mouth was and show his gratitude by volunteering to write all their reports for the next several months. Her suggestion had been met with characteristic repartee and laughter, not only from him but the others as well, mostly at his expense. He had laughed and taken it all in stride, not begrudging the opportunity to be thus badgered at all.
His father wandered over to stand beside him, watching the sun drift down to meet the varicolored Pacific. "How are you doing, son? Holding up all right?"
Steve smiled at him, a genuine all the way to the eyebrows smile. For the first time in months, his father noticed, his eyes were truly clear. "Fine, Dad. Even with Wyler still at large, I finally feel free, like myself again." He saw a shadow pass over his father's face as Mark blinked and then smoothed out his expression once more, and fervently hoped never to be the cause of such pain and care to his father again. He swallowed, forcing the lump in his throat downwards, and slung his arm around his father's shoulders, squeezing lightly. "I'm just fine, Dad."
Father and son stood wordlessly, watching the sea they both loved in perfect, silent understanding, savoring the harmony between them. More than six months after initially embarking on his quest for enlightenment, Steve Sloan had finally come home.