A/N: Yeah, an early post - I meant what I said about getting this posted before I fall silent for a week. Anyway, thanks to Caranath, Xenitha, DuffyBarkley, MoonlightGypsy, SunshineInTheGraySky, RangerLyn, and Wendylouwho10 for the reviews & comments!
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Step. Breathe. Another step. Keep weight off his left leg. Ignore the agony. Ignore the blood soaking down his jeans and leg and into his sneaker, despite the tourniquet and rough bandage. Don't look, don't look. Pray the bones weren't jutting through the muscle and skin, no matter what it felt like. Clench back the cursing whenever Joe leaned too heavily on him by accident — or muttered something at the two ghosts of children who were supposedly following them…
Oh God. Stairs.
Frank choked on a sob of frustration. He couldn't — he just couldn't —
"Just a little further," Joe murmured, white-faced and trembling, sagging against the railing. "Just a little more. I've got the railing. One step at a time, Frank. You can do it."
Don't yell. Don't cuss his brother out. Frank could do this. One step at a time. He had no choice. That bitch of a doctor couldn't hold Abrams forever, and Frank didn't trust her to wait a second longer than necessary. Grab the other railing, divide his weight between his arm and his shaking, exhausted brother, pray Joe didn't collapse…
But then a fire fighter came through the ground-floor door, glanced towards the two idiots in the basement stairwell…then looked again and started shouting for help.
Hands were on Frank, on Joe, as helmeted and turnout-coated men hauled them up the stairs and into the lobby proper…and then Frank passed out.
Slowly, he came to, in bright sunshine. He was lying on pavement out front of the building, surrounded in noise, yelling, and chaos. People rushed by; others screaming, some shouting orders; the stench of burning wood, oil…meat…
"We've got these two," someone said nearby…and muzzily, as if in a dream, Frank recognized the voice.
"Tom…?"
Tom Walker leaned into Frank's vision. "Y'know, boyo, when I said that about the Apocalypse, I was only joking."
"Joe…!"
Tom shoved him right back down. "He's right there, and he's being good, just like you need to be. Now be still and let us nice EMT's take care of you. Your leg's a mess."
"They cut his chest up," Joe croaked, somewhere to Frank's right.
"And you need to shut up and be still, too,"Tom said over his shoulder, as he picked up an IV line.
An IV line…plugged into Frank's arm. Not fully understanding, Frank stared at it, then saw Tom inject something into the port…
Frank came to again inside an ambulance. At least, he thought it was an ambulance: it was square and boxy and all white inside, it was moving, he was strapped down on a stretcher, and a siren blared just outside.
"…you're an EMT?" Joe's slurred, exhausted voice.
"Boyo, after all the excitement you two gave us in Circle Hills, I joined the county volunteer crew, and the Association paid for me to get certified in NYC, since I'm up here often enough. Our Center needs every hand it can get…you awake again, Frank?"
Shivering, cold, Frank blinked up. Tom leaned over him again, checking Frank's blood pressure and pulse. Everything seemed distant, hazy, and unreal. His leg throbbed; his chest itched. When Frank looked, his right jeans leg had been cut away, his shirt removed, and sterile dressings laid over both his leg and chest.
"C-c-cold." His teeth chattered. Frank swallowed, tried again. "Cold."
"Hang on." Tom reached over Frank's head, pulled a blanket out of one of the wall compartments, spread it over him. It didn't help.
His vision was blurry; Frank kept blinking, but it wouldn't clear, and finally, he turned his head. Joe lay on the other stretcher, an IV plugged into his arm; he looked half-asleep, his eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused.
"Joe said they hit you with scopolamine," Tom said. "Any idea how long ago?"
It was an effort to think; Frank considered that for a long moment. "Before…before all that blew. Twenty…thirty minutes. Joe, the kids…"
"Your friends are right there." Smiling, Tom nodded towards the end of Joe's stretcher. "And a pair of lovelier little ladies I've never met."
"Yeah, and listening to our Phoenix describe Dumbo to them has been a real treat, let me tell you," drawled another familiar voice, behind Frank's head. "That Sarah is one strong kid, if I can hear her."
"Noah?" Frank tried to raise up — Noah Saalburg was an NYC Blade; he'd been one of Joe's teachers at Bay Area — but Tom pushed him right back down. "Both of you? Where were you two? They were — I mean, I got —"
"Easy, boyo," Tom said quietly. "Even the Association can't magic away Manhattan traffic jams. We got lucky — our boys radio'd us about the fire, so we ditched the car on I-87 and they picked us up en route. We got there just as they were dragging you two out."
"Boys?" Frank was getting more and more confused; he felt dizzy, lightheaded, and sick, his heart pounding hard, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. None of this was making sense.
"This is their ambulance," Joe said. "Bronx has a hospital."
"Glorified ER," Tom corrected him. "And a backup EMT team for the Bronx area. More than what Bay Area has — we're tons more mobile — a bit less than NOLA. That's where you're going — Sarry, honey, he'll be okay. Really."
That was addressed to a spot at Frank's arm, where the IV was. A cool breeze was blowing across that arm…as if someone was playing "piano" up and down it…
Frank came to again in intense pain, freezing and shivering, his leg cramping, and he tried to yell for help, only for it to come out as a choked groan. A plastic tube lay across his face, blowing more cold air into his nose. Blurred, bright lights overhead; people moving past; long curtains partitioning him away from the rest of the room.
Warm hands were on him. "Easy…easy." An older female voice, firm and calm. "You're in recovery. Here." She spread a warmed blanket over him; the shock of heat made Frank gasp.
"Thirsty…" It croaked out. "Hurts."
A brief, muffled exchange, then the nurse helped Frank lift his head; she was a gray-haired battleship of a woman in dark blue scrubs. She held a paper cup to his mouth. "Small sips. It's just water. How bad's the pain, kiddo? Scale one to ten."
"Twenty," Frank whispered. Another muffled exchange, an interminable wait, then the nurse stood over him again, and he felt a tingling wave move up his arm, through his head, down through his body, leaving heavy, weighted relaxation and a promise of dreamless sleep in its wake.
"Just a small dose for now," the nurse said. "We'll give you the rest once you're upstairs."
"My leg…"
The nurse patted his shoulder, a warm, comforting grip. "Still there, all of it. Rest. Doze back off, if you need to. We'll get you settled whether or not you're awake."
The fourth time Frank woke, he was in a small, warm room, the walls painted a calming sandstone beige, and sunlight pouring through the open windows. His left leg was in a cast and in traction, his chest bandaged and sore. The bed was covered in comforters patterned in blue and green Celtic knot-work, the pillows thick and cozy, and a TV sat on top the low bureau along the opposite wall. If Frank hadn't known better, he'd have thought he was in a hotel room.
"You snore," Joe said.
Frank turned his head. Joe lay in the bed nearer the door. His eyes still dazed and unfocused, Joe looked pale, wan, and exhausted, though cleaner, his hair damp as if he'd showered — and he had an IV, too, his left arm bandaged.
"I figured you'd want the window seat," Joe said. "Being the early riser and all. I've been trying to negotiate for ear plugs, but…"
His gaze pointedly on Joe's arm, Frank said nothing.
"Okay. So I got a major lecture on yanking IV's out — the thing broke off in my arm, and I was lucky it didn't hit my lungs, all right?"
Frank still said nothing.
"And I'm exhausted. I haven't had solid food for a week, so this —" Joe held up the IV line, "is to get all that replaced and help my system get re-balanced. And…" He looked away. "They got me addicted. Morphine, heroin. Whatever else was in that crap. They used such high dosages…"
"And they had you a week," Frank said, and Joe nodded, still not looking at him. Great. Just what they needed: both of them stoned out of their gourds on pain meds. "What about the kids?"
"Outside."
"Outside? But —"
"But we run drug rehab and intervention here." Tom Walker stood in the doorway. "And the Bronx has a lot of bad memories and even worse hauntings, on top of all the gang and drug violence. So the building wards are hard and solid to keep all that out — nothing gets through, period. Our patients have a hard enough time with getting clean, without two little ghosts adding to the DTs. 'Bout time you're awake, Frank. Joe's been driving the nurses insane."
"There's a small park on the grounds," Joe said, ignoring that. "You can see it from the window. They've got lighter wards there."
"And those we could flex and let the kids in." Tom smiled. "They're worried about you two, but they're fine. Now…" Tom came further in, settled in one of the armchairs; he hesitated, then sighed. "Time to get serious, before Master Lin comes back in. First, I called Bay Area and let Josh know you're okay…and the bare-bone basics of what happened. He and Mar are both flying out here. And Mar's daughter, Kris, and someone called Jamie. They'll be here day after tomorrow."
Eyes closed, Joe breathed out a long, heavy sigh; Frank bit back a smile. Hopefully there was an empty room somewhere in the building — though having a possible audience wouldn't necessarily stop Jamie…or Joe, for that matter.
But then something else registered. "Master Lin?" Frank said, surprised. "I remember Tag telling us about him, after all the Circle Hills stuff. He sounded really old…."
"Jesus, Mary, Joseph — don't ever tell him that! Not unless you want to wind up back in the ER! But, bluntly, Healers are so rare, we can't afford to let them retire."
"He's just like Tag described him," Joe said. "He looks like an elf in full Mandarin robes, but he talks like Archie Bunker."
"Anyway, more serious," Tom went on. "I know neither of you are real copacetic at the moment, but this can't wait. You two have a decision to make."
Suddenly Frank felt far too old and exhausted himself. "Dad," Frank said.
Tom nodded. "From what you said earlier, from what Joe said while you were in surgery…I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry. I liked your father, I really did. I can't believe…" Tom fell silent.
Frank didn't want to believe it, either…but now he looked at his brother. What Joe had said?
Head bowed, Joe wouldn't meet his gaze.
"Anyway. We can run it a couple ways. First…you can disappear." Tom's gaze, his tone: flat, even, serious. "And I mean completely, without a word, without any further contact. It'll mean severing every tie you have with your home and moving out to Bay Area or one of the other Centers permanently. We'd send 'paths to your dad and aunt to enforce that belief — that you're both either dead or vanished in the CIA's hands."
"You didn't do that with Tag," Frank said. "With her parents."
"Believe me, we've tried. Tracking that son of a bitch father of hers was near impossible. But at this point, Hawk's able to handle the problem herself, if it crops up again — there's a reason she carries that k-bar, boyo."
The unspoken implication: Tom had been in on the effort. Frank said nothing.
"You said a couple ways," Joe rasped. Eyes closed, arms crossed around himself. Shivering.
"I did," Tom said, still quiet, still serious. "Second option: you confront your father and find out the truth. My 'path's good enough to tell if he's lying. Then, based on what you find out, you decide what to do. Going back to your hotel, though, is out of the question — the feds are sure to be watching it, and right now, neither of you are in any shape to handle that."
"So…what…" Frank hazarded, "you bring Dad back here?"
Tom nodded. "And if it doesn't work out — well. We'll take care of it."
Take care of it. Frank looked at his brother again — Joe was near tears — then bowed his head. That things had fallen to this point…that they were even seriously considering any of this… "God," Frank breathed. "God, God, God…"
Someone knocked on the door, then poked his head in: a burly redheaded man with an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. "Okay if I come in?"
Tom nodded at the newcomer. "Guys, this is Callahan. He heads Bronx Center. Cal, Frank and Joe Hardy."
"Pleasure's all mine." Callahan's voice was gravel grinding through a cement mixer. He came in, offered a beefy hand for the brothers to shake. "I figure I need to be in on this chat, but I'll clear out if you boys don't want me here."
"It's okay," Frank said. "It affects the Center. We understand that."
A nurse came in at that point to get vitals on the brothers; Callahan waited until she left. "I'll need the whole story. But first, what Tom was saying, with the feds. We can put you up here — and I'll extend that offer to your father, too, if he's clear."
"Bring Dad here," Joe said. Voice tight, eyes still closed. "I want to know. I have to know. I…I mean…" His voice broke.
"I understand, son," Callahan said gently. "And by the way, I'm one of the higher-ups, not just head of this Center. Whatever you need, whatever you have to do, it's cleared." His mouth quirked. "You might want to turn on the tube there. I'd say your reputation with us has just been made."
"Swell," Joe muttered. Despite everything, Frank choked on a laugh.
"Clear to bring the father here, Cal?" Tom said.
Callahan nodded. "Get moving. Feds are up to their armpits right now, so you've got a window to act. I'll keep 'em company." Chewing on the end of the cigar, Callahan waited until Tom left before settling his bulk into an armchair. "I'd like to be in on that chat with your dad, if you don't mind. I don't like tooting my horn, but I'm a helluva 'path. We'll get the truth out of him, one way or another."
Frank couldn't look at him. "Please," Frank whispered. "I…I don't think I could handle it alone."
"You're stronger than you think," Callahan said. "You're always stronger than you think. I'm looking at one young man who's survived five days under the CIA's tender mercies…and at another young man who infiltrated one of their locked-down facilities and…well…best if I show you." Callahan got up, switched on the TV and fiddled with the channels until he hit one showing the local news.
Frank stared at the screen, recognizing the front of East River Harbor. Fire trucks, ambulances, police cars…patients, medical personnel, and others crowding around the front and in various stages of panic…the top two floors of the building in flames and not under any control at all…men in dark suits yelling at reporters…soldiers? Helicopters?
"I think Apocalyptic Act of God covers it real good." Callahan's grin was vicious. "All their records and paperwork and data from that place, whatever they had going on — it's all now in one unholy helluva shambles. That alone'll jigger 'em good for a few years."
"But it wasn't us," Joe said. "I mean, it wasn't just us. One of their own people — we didn't mean to do all that —"
"Oh, bullshit, son, you sure as hell did. Stupid jackasses brought it on themselves. Maybe next time they'll think twice before they try that shit." Callahan rumbled out a laugh. "They need to learn to ask politely, just like the rest of us. Everyone's been glued to the tube in the commons since the story broke. I finally gave in and ordered pizza for the whole crew. You'll be up to your ass—er, armpits in pizza yourselves, once word gets out who you are."
"Tons of mushrooms," Frank said, managing a grin at Joe.
"Done," Callahan said. "It'll have to wait until Master Lin clears it, though. Now…down to business, Blades. Gimme the whole story."